


Heathens

by Freya_Ishtar



Series: The Werewolf Rebellion Chronicles [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancient magic, Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, M/M, Romance, Smut, Werewolf Courting, Werewolf Culture, Werewolves, war-time, werewolf heritage, wolf-mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 17:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 45,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17288234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: Fenrir hadn't planned on biting Orias Mulciber during the Battle of Hogwarts. Even less had he considered the newly-turned werewolf would be competition for claiming Hermione Granger as a mate. Hermione, herself, has no idea what she wants, or who to choose, especially when the so-called 'godless creatures' start showing her how good life with them can be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is a canon-divergent AU.
> 
> 2) Chapter lengths will vary, updates will be sporadic.
> 
> 3) As the subtitle (The Werewolf Rebellion Chronicles) implies, this is the first in a series. At present, it will likely be a trilogy. This will also be the last new fic I post until I get some of my current WIPs completed.
> 
> * Orias Mulciber (who appears in a number of my other DE fics) is my take on the canon character of Mulciber.
> 
> FANCAST:
> 
> Brock O'Hurn as *Orias Mulciber; Jason Momoa as Fenrir Greyback
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit from this story.

 

   **Chapter One**

No one expected the way the Second Wizarding War had ended. When Voldemort fell in combat against Harry Potter, the last thing anyone had thought would happen was the werewolves rising up to take over the Dark. Though, if anyone had thought to consult Hermione Granger on the matter, she'd have told them the so-called army Fenrir Greyback was said to be building for the Dark Lord should've been considered a _much_  more serious threat than it was.

After all, the werewolves had been witches and wizards,  _first_. Magic combined with their sheer brute strength and ferocity should've put them at the top of the Wizarding World's proverbial food chain long ago. Their own small and hunted numbers leading up to recent times was the most likely culprit of such a circumstance never occurring before.

Fenrir had offered the Death Eaters only two options. Yield and be ruled by him, or die. The Dark wizards and witches who'd supported the Death Eaters and their Lord had scattered, running from the wolves, or reluctantly surrendering to the Light to join forces.

The last thing Hermione, herself, expected as Fenrir Greyback had announced his intentions—a blond mountain of a wizard crumbled at his feet and writhing from the agony of a fresh werewolf bite—and started to withdraw from the battlefield, his new numbers following his command, was the way his gaze swept past the chaos and ruin to lock on hers.

There had been a few times during the battle when she'd nearly crossed paths with him. When she'd glimpsed him in passing and it seemed like he was trying to get to her. Each time, he'd made the point to catch her eyes with his own. Just as with those previous times, as he stared at her now, she felt as though he was trying convey some message she could not quite grasp.

There was a  _definite_  sense rippling through her, as he pulled his gaze from hers, that she did not grasp it because his message was something that thrilled her as much as it terrified her. And she did not  _want_  to feel thrilled by Fenrir Greyback.

As she snapped back to her senses, she knew Harry wanted to pursue—the spell he shot at Greyback, just missing him, but preventing him from retrieving the soon-to-be werewolf collapsed in front of him told her as much—but they had their own wounded to tend and dead to bury. They could not spare the manpower right now to chase the combined army of werewolves and surviving Death Eaters.

"Harry, don't," she said, clutching his wand arm and forcing it back to his side.

When he turned an angry, disbelieving look on her, she shook her head. "No, it's not the time. You chase them now, you won't make it back. Besides . . . ." With a jutting of her chin, she directed his attention to the one who'd been left behind. "He wants the surviving Death Eaters in his ranks? Then we've got something he just might want to come back for."

Harry drew in a deep breath and let it out slow before taking a moment to examine the thrashing wizard with his gaze. Giving a head shake of his own as they made their way toward the man, he said in a hissing whisper, "Hermione, he's massive! You really want to bring something like  _that_  into our side's stronghold?"

She spared a moment to pick up the bite victim's dropped wand. Pocketing it—she was aware from experience that one never could tell when a spare wand might come in handy—she turned toward their prisoner.

"We'll patch him up and stick him in the dungeons." Hermione frowned, looking down into the face of the mountainous blond. Piercing blue eyes stared up at her, his anger with them just for being on the other side of the War palpable even as he winced and cringed, baring his teeth at the pain. "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on him myself, if need be."

* * *

Hermione was quite displeased to be awoken by Harry in the wee hours of the morning a week later. The survivors on the side of the Light and their new, only partially-willing recruits who'd defected from the Dark following Fenrir's coup, had been on constant watch, and she was still just catching up on sleep from pulling more patrols than anyone thought she ought to—but then, even Harry knew better than to tell the witch there was something she couldn't do.

He hated that it seemed like she felt responsible to pull double-duty ever since Ron's death. It wasn't her fault, but try telling  _her_  that.

In the towers and dungeons, and below the kitchens, the surviving students who were still able to fight had transported their beds in from their dorm rooms, turning their respective common areas of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff into makeshift barracks. They all knew that in reality, they did not want anyone who'd perhaps lost all their dorm-mates to have to sleep alone, but neither did any of them want the true upheaval of all survivors living in the Great Hall  _all_  the time. Some semblance of normalcy was important, especially for the younger students.

The teachers tried to make due splitting their time between fortifying the castle's defenses and providing continuing— _proper_ —lessons for any students who needed the distraction of attending. Planning defensive strategies and contingency plans for when the werewolves might return had been left to those who made the most sense based on their war records. New headmistress Professor Minerva McGonagall, newly-appointed Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt—who split his time, as well, between Hogwarts and rooting out left over dissidents from the ranks of a nearly-destroyed Ministry—Harry, Hermione, and Neville. If the elder witch and wizard felt odd sharing the proverbial war room floor with former students, neither made such concerns known.

Rubbing the heels of her palms against her eyes, she groused in a whisper, careful not to wake the others, "What is it, Harry?"

"Your _little_  friend? He's awake and bellowing."

Hermione snickered shaking her head as she grabbed her wand and climbed out of bed. "I'll see what he wants. How's his memory of before he passed out? Does he realize—?"

"That he's a werewolf?" Frowning, Harry shook his head. "He hasn't said one way or another. Just hollering for his 'jailor'. I can only assume he means you."

"Which would seem to indicate he does remember being bitten." She sighed and nodded, starting her way out of the tower. He didn't seem especially the warm and fuzzy type when they'd lugged him into the hospital wing, she doubted he was much friendier now as a prisoner of war  _and_ a soon-to-be werewolf.

She should've known to brace for the day the magically-induced coma—the one Madam Pomfrey had cast, set to wear off only when he was fully healed—dispelled itself. Fighting back a yawn, she stretched and made mental note to ask Winky for some of that particularly strong coffee the elf seemed to specialize in after she saw to her prisoner.

Upon entering the dungeons, she heard it. An almost impossibly deep voice echoing from the cells. What he was saying, she couldn't quiet get as she crossed the common room floor, but then this would probably be an ideal time to cast a silencing charm on the door. It was only by sheer dumb luck that they'd decided the Hufflepuff common room a more soothing space for the students and his bellyaching was not keeping any of them awake.

Stationed outside the door to the cells, Neville was hanging his head. "Oy, shut it!"

Hermione's brows shot up, but then Neville had been much braver in the days that followed his slaying of Nagini. In fact, he barely seemed able to hold his tongue at all, anymore.

"Come in here and say that to my face!"

As Neville rolled his eyes, he spotted Hermione coming toward him. "There you are. Watch it with that one in there," he said, nodding toward the cells. "Got a mouth on him that would make the Devil jealous."

"Has he said anything useful?"

Shaking his head, a thoughtful expression graced Neville's features for a moment. "Unless you count threatening to feed me my own bits, no."

Clearing her throat around a surprised laugh, Hermione nodded. "That is . . . colorful. All right, noted. Thank you, Neville."

The wizard pulled open the door for her, again rolling his eyes as the action invited another hollered threat from the prisoner.

Schooling her features, she entered, approaching his cell on careful footfalls. Hermione kept her distance from the bars, but still felt taken aback to see the man on his feet.  _Bloody hell!_  He was a clear two meters tall! She'd known he was massive when they'd dragged him into the castle, but she didn't think she'd been expecting this.

Though he probably could give Hagrid a run for his money, he wasn't proportioned like one with giant blood.

"So, you're her? The one who thought to stick me in here, hmm?"

Her brows shot up as she held his gaze. The way he lounged against the bars, his muscled arms hanging through as he glared at her with those impossibly sharp blue eyes. He probably thought himself so intimidating, even unarmed.

"So, you're him? The one who can't stop bellowing like some wounded little beast?"

He mirrored her expression, a smirk plucking one corner of his mouth upward. " _Oh!_  You're an interesting one."

Folding her arms under her breasts, she shook her head. "Who are you?"

"Orias Mulciber."

"D'you remember what happened?"

Orias shrugged his massive shoulders. He still hadn't taken his eyes from hers. "It's a bit fuzzy. I remember the Dark Lord falling. Pain, lots of it. Really  _ungodly_ agony, actually . . . and your eyes."

Hermione tried not to feel startled by his last words. He probably said that deliberately to see if he could get some response out of her. "Then you don't recall Fenrir declaring a coup?"

The wizard barked out a laugh at that. "You're serious?"

"Quite. Used the army he amassed to strongarm the Death Eaters into following him."

Orias breathed out a low, surprised whistle. "Did not see that coming. Still not entirely sure how I ended up in here, little witch."

"Oh, he tried to take you with him, but we stopped him." She pretended she didn't feel a little ripple of joy at the shock in his face. Hermione didn't exactly like what she thought this war might be turning her into.

"He tried to . . . ." Orias shook his head. Fenrir hardly seemed one for merciful acts. If he'd been wounded in the battle, why would Fenrir have tried to take him? "Why?"

"That ungodly agony you remember? Look at your left side."

A wary look flashing across his face, he ducked his head. Pulling aside his robes, he examined the crescent-shaped scar running along the side of his abdomen. "That _bastard_ ," he roared, baring his teeth.

"We figure he might come back for you. You're probably  _exactly_  the sort of thing he hopes to unleash on anyone who won't bend knee to him."

Ignoring any further show of how much the revelation bothered him, he smirked. "You have an interesting way of phrasing things, you know that."

"I'll pretend I don't know why you'd think that, as I'm sure I have no interest in how your mind works, Orias Mulciber."

Again, he lounged against the bars, staring at her. "Pity, as I believe you'd actually  _like_  the way I think."

"Not likely." She refrained from a sudden bizarre need to force a gulp down her throat. She had to assess his needs and be on her way. "Are you hungry?"

"Depends on what you want to feed me."

Sighing, she shook her head. "I'll have the elves prepare you some  _food_ ," she said, turning on her heel and starting for the door. "You  _actually_ need something, just holler. You're good at that."

"At least tell me your name, little witch."

With a second sigh, she halted and glanced at him over her shoulder. "Hermione Granger. Also known as The Girl who helped Harry Potter kick  _your_  Dark Lord's arse."

"Hermione . . . ." An obvious spark of recognition flickered through those painfully blue eyes. "I've heard of you."

"I'm not surprised. Most of your ilk have by now."

"No, no." He frowned, but it was a thoughtful, calculating look. "He talked about you. Greyback."

Sooner than she could stop herself, Hermione turned and stomped back toward the cell. " _What?_  What do you mean?"

Orias nodded, scraping his teeth against his lower lip as he watched her face for a moment. _This_  was interesting. "I don't really know, something about how you'd slipped through his fingers, but now—and by  _now_ , of course, I mean that last battle—he was going to set things to rights."

Her brow furrowed and she swallowed hard as she tried to calm her nerves. Those times they'd been stopped just short of crossing paths. When his gaze had sought hers amid the chaos . . . .

She'd known he wanted to bite her that day at Malfoy Manor, but she'd considered it a kill of opportunity at the time. That he'd held onto that desire . . . .

"What's the matter? That upset you, little witch?"

Anger pinching her features, she forced herself to meet Orias Mulciber's gaze, once more. "I think I'll leave you alone, now. Let you bat those pretty blue eyes at someone else for a few minutes."

He smirked, leaning his forehead against the bars. "Oh, so you think I'm pretty?"

Snickering, she took a half-step closer, only near enough to get a better look at his face as she answered in a hushed voice, "Make no mistake, Mulciber, one can think something pretty and  _still_ hate it."

That smirk of his widened into an oddly wicked grin as he gave her a once-over. "I do believe you're correct on that."

Rolling her eyes, she turned on her heel and finally exited the cells. As she continued through the basement to make her way to the stairs by the Hufflepuff common room and up to the kitchens, she tried not to think about what Orias had said.

She tried not to consider that Fenrir actually had _plans_  about her.

Tried and failed, as all she seemed able to think about was the way the werewolf had held her gaze before vanishing with his army.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Fenrir frowned, scratching at his beard as he looked over the map of the castle grounds laid out before him. Though the occupants were displeased, he had his new forces fall back to Malfoy Manor via Apparition once they'd retreated far enough into the Dark Forest that the Light, had they chosen to give chase, would not be able to follow.

The woods that ringed the Manor grounds and the very size of the house, itself, made it the ideal place for the combined faction. But even with a stationary base of operations, he still had a problem.

He hadn't meant to bite Mulciber, but the damn fool had stumbled into his path in the heat of combat. Mulciber had blocked what turned out to be Fenrir's last chance to sink his teeth into Hermione Granger during the chaos of battle.

His anger and instincts had taken over, and the next thing he knew . . . . But, regardless of whether or not he'd intended to turn that great lummox into a werewolf, he recognized what an incredible asset Mulciber would be as part of his army. A beast like _that_? Anyone Fenrir loosed him on would not stand a chance.

But he still had to retrieve the bastard. He also didn't want to go for an all-out assault on the castle. Not while  _she_  was in there.

"They'd have already recast the anti-Apparition wards as soon as we were clear of the grounds.  _All_ the tunnels under Hogwarts were blocked off?"

Draco Malfoy shrugged, feeling even more helpless when Greyback turned the full weight of his attention on him than he had from the moment he'd realized Voldemort's death might not have left them better off. "From what the students were made to believe." He hadn't attended his seventh year, but he'd had Crabbe and Goyle keep him apprised of the goings on at the school.

"Then we need the entryway least fortified. One that can be breached without drawing attention."

"Forgive me, Sir," Lucius said, the way he forced himself to speak with a tone of fealty to a bloody werewolf still obvious. "But as long as the entrance you're breaching is somewhere hidden, nothing you do _to_  breach it would be noticed within the castle."

Leveling his amber-eyed gaze at the elder Malfoy, Fenrir uttered a thoughtful sound. "You're referring to the entrance beneath the Shrieking Shack?"

Lucius shrugged. "If what your wolves observed as we departed is true, the Whomping Willow still stands, but was too damaged during the War to pose any real danger to those who might make use of that tunnel. One would potentially be able to slip into the castle grounds from the Forest, provided they know the layout of both well enough."

For a few silent moments, Fenrir only stared at the other man. He could feel the agitation of the onlooking Death Eaters growing while they stood there. In the absence of Voldemort or Snape, those who remained had defaulted to treating Lucius as a second-in-command. The notion that he had yet to earn that place in the eyes of their new leader left them all a bit apprehensive.

Finally, Fenrir exhaled through his nostrils, clapping a hand on Lucius' shoulder. "The Dark Lord never  _did_ appropriately appreciate you, Malfoy. Good thinking."

Lucius did not expect the flood of relief that coursed through him. Nor did he expect the strange, if reluctant, moment of pride he felt. How odd. Perhaps it was as simple as the Dark Lord never making his subordinates feel appreciated, only making them feel in danger of becoming expendable if they failed him.

Nodding, Lucius answered, "Thank you, Sir." Being in league with the werewolves might not be so bad, after all.

* * *

Hermione had no idea why Harry had the audacity to act surprised when he found her in the library the next evening. She had napped . . . for a few moments, there, as she waited not-so-patiently in the kitchens for Winky to whip of a pot of that probably magically imbued coffee of hers. And then, after scheduling what seemed like appropriate meal times for the prisoner with the kitchen staff, she retreated to her place of bookish sanctuary with a mug one would think she'd nicked from Hagrid's hut before it had been ravaged by fire. Stupid Thorfinn Rowle.

"There you are."

She didn't even look up from the words before her as she took a long sip of coffee. "Where else do you typically find me when I seem to be nowhere about, Harry?"

His brows drew upward as he nodded. "You do have a point, there. What are you looking for? Ways to murder a literal army of werewolves from afar, I hope?"

Snickering, the witch shook her head. "No. Though you're on the right track, this  _is_  werewolf research. What information there is to be found, anyway." She didn't bother to mention wishing Remus was there. They both did, and not for help with research—they missed their friend, and if they stopped too long to think on his absence, it would only call to mind  _everyone_  they'd lost recently.

They could grieve after they saw to Wizarding Britian coming safely under sensible rule, once more. Both understood these days of preparation and planning and bracing for attacks that might never come were  _not_  the time for heavy-hearted sentiments.

Mourning was for those who had the luxury of time.

"If you find anything that can help with the fortifications that we don't already know about—"

"Bring it to Flitwick immediately, I _know_ , Harry. I'm the one who put the protocols in place."

"Testy much? When is the last time you slept?"

She shrugged. "Earlier today." He didn't need to know that it had only been for a scant ten or so minutes. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be short with you. I'm just not finding what I'm looking for and it's frustrating me."

"Oh." Harry nodded, resting his elbows on the table as he glanced about at the books scattered around her. "Okay. What are we looking for?"

With a sigh, she said, "What could cause a werewolf to become fixated on a person. I mean, rather specifically, someone they've no reason to hold a grudge against, or anything." She'd only just met Greyback that  _one_  time before encountering him again on the battlefield, she didn't see what she could've done to garner his continued interest.

"I hope you're not talking about your new friend in the dungeons. Taking him prisoner was your idea; pretty sure that's plenty of reason for anyone to hold a grudge."

Frowning, Hermione shook her head. "His name is Orias Mulciber, and no, not him. Though, I've a feeling my  _very_  unique relationship with him will be its own headache. No. It was something he said about Greyback."

Harry straightened up, folding his arms across his chest. "Well, what'd he say about Greyback?"

Bracing her palms on the table, she hung her head for a moment. She really didn't want to give Harry anymore weight to carry than he already had on his shoulders. Knowing his best friend was potentially being targeted by the new leader of the Dark was  _not_  likely to be something he wouldn't find a way to take personally, even though it had nothing to do with him. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Forgot the World Didn't Revolve Around Him.

But keeping it from him would do no good, either.

"Mulciber said that Greyback talked about me." A thoughtful scowl marring her features, she went on. "From what he said, I can only infer that Fenrir felt cheated, somehow, when we escaped Malfoy Manor that day. Apparently, he planned to correct letting me go during the battle last week."

"Greyback."

She looked up at him, blinking a few times. "What?"

"Greyback. You called him Fenrir just now. It's nothing, really, simply a bit unnerving, is all."

"Sorry, I hadn't realized. Maybe just saying Greyback all the time is too monotonous." Something bothered her about her slip, but she pushed past it. "He intended to bite me, Harry. After all these days that have passed since first encountering him and all that's happened in between, he was  _still_  thinking about that."

"I thought—"

"Yeah, I thought it was _only_  about opportunity, too." Once more, she shook her head. "Apparently not. But there should be no reason for a werewolf to fixate on a random person like this."

"Maybe you're thinking too much on it," he said, stealing a sip of her coffee only to wince at the potency of it. "We don't actually know him. We don't know what kind of person he is. You said it yourself, he felt cheated. Maybe he just considers it unfinished business."

That didn't quite feel right to her, but she forced a nod. She could be wrong. "That could be it, I guess."

"You're also ignoring another thing it could be."

Her brow shot up. "Oh?"

"Mulciber could be toying with you."

Hermione's shoulders drooped at that. Of course! That could totally be what his statements were, just something to keep her off-kilter.

Harry shrugged, furrowing his brow behind the wire rims of his glasses. "He's a bloody Death Eater. He could've easily heard about our escape and Greyback's behavior toward you. Decided, like any normal witch, you'd be scared of a werewolf, and seen an opportunity to get under your skin."

Nodding, she closed the book before her. "You're right. Of course, you're right. Now, was there some reason you seemingly tore the castle apart before realizing you'd find me here?"

Snickering at how oblivious she was to the time—Hermione and books, would it never change?—he said, "Yeah. It's your turn for patrol."

She offered a mock salute before grabbing back her coffee. "Yes, Sir!"

Wagging his finger at her as he followed her out of the library, he said, "Careful. A man could get used to hearing that sort of thing."

Hermione laughed, shaking her head at him. "Oh, shut up, Harry."

* * *

Starting awake in his cell, Orias looked about. There were no sounds he could detect, no movements near him. He simply felt as though something was  _off_  . . . something that made him edgy.

Unable to sit still despite his groggy state, he bounced up to stand and started pacing his cell.

* * *

Furrowing her brow, Hermione halted. She extinguished her wand's light and peered out into the deeper darkness of the Forest in the distance so the flickering illumination would not detract from her vision. There was something out there. Not the mad rush of a nighttime attack by an army of werewolves, sure—they might be waiting for the full moon for that—but  _something._

Glancing back toward the castle, she broke from her perimeter sweep. She held her wand gripped ready at her side as she crept on quiet footfalls toward the edge of the Dark Forest.

The further she went, the more the sounds of nocturnal woodland creatures and breezes rustling through leaves filled her ears. It felt odd that so much chaos and death had ripped through this area just a week ago. So strange to imagine this place was as dangerous as she knew it could be with the crisp night air filling her lungs.

Giving her body a shake, she told herself there was nothing in the quiet distance of the Forest. Nothing that required her attention so urgently that she should leave her patrol route. She would report in about the possibility that she'd heard something when she returned to the Great Hall.

Nodding, she forced a breath and turned on her heel. The amber eyes that caught her gaze as she found Fenrir Greyback standing before her sent a shock through her so sudden, she couldn't even get out a scream.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Hermione? Hermione!"

The witch blinked open her eyes, immediately wincing at the pain in her head. "What?" Her vision was a bit blurred, but she could make out the vague shapes that comprised Harry's features hanging over her, and that had definitely been his voice shouting her name in something of a panic, just now.

"My skull's splitting, Harry," she said in a hushed tone, afraid to speak too loud. Hermione scrambled to recall what had happened. "Um . . . ?"

That was when Fenrir Greyback's gaze flashed before her mind's eye. "Greyback! Harry, I don't _know_ what happened. I can't—"

"Shhh, it's okay, Hermione. He got the jump on you, but we caught him!"

Her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of his words. Yes, she remembered turning and finding Greyback there. But  _then_. . . ? Harry assisted her to sit up from where she'd fallen on the boundary between the castle grounds and the Dark Forest. How had he knocked her out? What had happened between seeing him standing before her and his capture? How had the castle even been alerted if she'd been rendered unconscious?

Swallowing hard, she gave a slow shake of her head and climbed to her feet, her movements delicate. There was a strange languidness in her limbs, though, that she couldn't quite understand. The relaxed sensation ran in wild contradiction to the ache in her head.

As Harry slung an arm around her to guide her back to the castle entryway, she tried to self-assess. She still had her wand in-hand, odd if Fenrir had truly gotten the jump on her. Shouldn't disarming her have been his first priority? "I don't remember what happened." It also seemed unlikely that he'd have bothered hitting her with a memory charm, so what . . . ?

"You managed to get off a flare before he knocked you out. I think you're right. He has his eye on you." Harry shook his head, hating that he had to think this way. "Can't see any other reason he didn't kill you, or at the very least try to bite you."

"Where is he now?"

"In the dungeons, currently incapacitated in a _heavily_  warded cell."

As they stepped into the castle's front hall, she frowned, not liking the sound of this at all. Something was wrong. She especially didn't like the idea of Fenrir Greyback and Orias Mulciber in the same space—separate, barred and warded, or not.

"Take me down there, I need to see him."

"Hermione, you're injured. I don't think—"

"Harry,  _don't_  protect me on this. Please." Slipping out of his hold, she rounded on him to meet his gaze. "You can come with me, or you can stay here, but I need to see Greyback.  _Now_."

He knew he couldn't understand what this was like for her, or what might be going through her head. She'd been hoping he'd been right and that Fenrir Greyback wasn't fixated on her. He had no idea what to say now that they both knew he was wrong.

"Okay, fine, I won't stop you. But I _am_  going with you."

Breaking into a smile, she nodded. "I knew you'd say that. But you'll wait outside the cells. If he's got some fascination with me, I might be able to get information out of him easier if he thinks I'm alone."

"You're right." Harry frowned, his eyes rolling. "Have I told you how much I hate it when you're right?"

"Hmm . . . ." She tapped a thoughtful finger against her chin as they started across the main floor toward the staircase. "I do believe I've heard that once or twice before from you, yes."

He snickered in spite of his concerns. "Smart arse."

* * *

"Why d' I have the feeling you're weren't caught sneaking into the castle by  _accident_ , Greyback?"

Fenrir lifted his head, meeting Orias' gaze. Smirking, he shook his head. "I'm sure I've not the foggiest idea what you mean."

Folding his arms across his chest, Orias scowled. "Sure you don't." He didn't like this. He'd been overcome with an edgy sense of something off, and suddenly Fenrir turns up? What was this? Some stupid damn werewolf bullshit? Of  _course_ , it probably was. He was still so angry with Greyback for biting him in the first place that he hadn't exactly been thrilled to see the werewolf dragged into the dungeons to keep him company.

Fenrir's smirk widened into a grin. "Ah, ah. Temper, temper, pup."

Dropping his arms, Orias took a menacing—if completely pointless—step toward the bars of his cell. " _What_  did you just call me?"

With a shake of his head, Fenrir sucked his teeth. "You heard me." He held up his hands. " _Pup_. That's what you are to me, after all. And I can  _tell_  you're getting angry."

Orias rolled his eyes. "Is this some _stupid_  werewolf thing that you can tell from my scent, or a feeling in the air, or some such shit?"

"There _are_  those things, sure." Fenrir went right on grinning, still. He could hear her footfalls drawing toward the other side of the door that led to the cells. Mulciber had yet to learn to utilize his senses properly. "But then, there's also your eyes."

"My—?"

The door creaked open, cutting Orias off, mid-question. The witch stepped inside, her movements cautious and her wand drawn. But the scent that followed her in only made Fenrir want to laugh. As if Harry Potter could  _really_  stop him if he wanted to do her harm?

"Mulciber?" Seemingly unable to stop herself, she crossed to his cell, coming as close to the bars as she dared.

Wary at her unexpected scrutiny, Orias actually backpedaled a step. Giving her a startled once over, he barked out a particularly demanding, " _What_?"

Swallowing hard, Hermione shook her head at him. "Your eyes. They . . . they look like  _his_ ," she said, nodding over her shoulder toward Fenrir's cell.

His face falling, Orias gaped at Fenrir.

Fenrir, for his part, couldn't help a snicker as he shrugged. "I was _trying_  to tell you that you looked angry."

Spinning on her heel to face Fenrir, Hermione frowned. "Oh, stop messing with him. Getting each other riled up isn't going to help either one of you. And I've a bone to pick with you, anyway, Greyback."

"Oh? That sounds fun, actually. What is it, pretty little thing?"

Biting back the most bizarre urge to loose a little growl deep in her throat, the witch again shook her head. As her grip tightened on her wand, she took a step. But just as fast, Mulciber shot an arm out through the bars. Her hair was just wild enough, and his arm just long enough, that he managed to tangle his fist in the locks and pull her backward.

She managed to refrain from hollering in shock—Harry  _was_  right outside that door, as promised, and if he ran in just now in a panic, he might do something their side might come to regret—but noted, in the same moment, that Fenrir also looked surprised by the Death Eater's action; this was clearly not something they'd planned. Orias slipped his other arm through the bars, cupping his hand around her jaw.

"Mulciber, what the  _hell_  do you think you're doing?" she asked in a hissing breath.

"I don't take well to captivity, Little Witch." He lowered his head, speaking close to her ear. "Strangely, I don't  _actually_ want to hurt you. But make no mistake, I will tear your head off if it gets me out of this cell. Now, you're going to unlock this door, and then—"

Hermione blindly jabbed her wand backward into his abdomen, loosing a powerful stinging hex on contact.

Orias reflexively released her as he staggered backward a few steps. "Why you little—!"

"Don't try  _anything_  like that, again," she said, her tone lethal as she pivoted to face him, her wand aimed right between his eyes. The witch couldn't help the vicious smile that curved her lips. "And don't you  _dare_  think to talk to me that way when you're the one who just tried to take me hostage!"

Fenrir watched the interaction, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back against the wall.

She went on, oblivious to their spectator. "You want to spout some rubbish excuse at me like  _you_  don't take well to captivity? Well, _I_  don't take well to expectations that I behave like some damsel in distress!"

"Noted," Orias answered, wincing, still, a snarl in his voice.

"And you!" She turned to face Fenrir, but kept her place equidistance between their cells.

The werewolf's brows shot up, but he only met her gaze in silence as he waited for her to go on.

"I know you're up to something, Greyback."

He laughed, giving a sideways nod. "Oh, really?"

"I don't know what it is, but I can't shake this nagging impression that you are _precisely_  where you want to be." She scowled, nodding at him.

With a sigh that somehow sounded content, Fenrir said, "You could be right, there. But then, perhaps I'm precisely where _you_  want me to be, too."

"Behind bars?" she asked, her brows pinching together. "Yes, I'd say so."

"'S not what I mean, pretty, but we'll pretend you can't possibly know what I'm getting at, for now."

Hermione's eyes narrowed menacingly, but she refused to be lured even a half-step closer to his little cage. Just as she refused to entertain thinking too long and what he might be saying.

"Don't think you can toy with me, Greyback."

That smirk of his returned. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. Not verbally, anyway."

_Ignore that_ , she told herself in a stern voice, pushing herself to focus. "What happened out there in the Forest?"

He feigned a look of hurt. "You don't remember?"

"I wouldn't be asking if I did," she snapped, scowling so hard a Malfoy would be impressed by the severity of the expression pinching her features.

"Sorry. If you can't remember, I can't help you."

She nodded, giving him an angry once-over. "I'll see about whipping up some veritaserum, maybe. Surely  _that_ will make you a bit forthcoming."

Fenrir watched as she stormed toward the door. "Oh," he said as she was about to slip from the dungeon, "I'm sure you'll remember all on your own."

Hermione glanced back at him over her shoulder. "And just what makes you 'sure,' Greyback?"

"Just a hunch." Stepping away from the wall, he gripped his fingers around the bars. His amber-eyed gaze holding hers, he whispered, "Sleep on it, maybe."

Ignoring the suggestive tone of his voice, she walked out. Harry slammed the door behind her and locked it.

"Well?" He asked as he followed her through the basement toward the staircase. "Did he say anything useful?"

Chewing her lip, Hermione shook her head.  _I'm sure you'll remember all on your own . . . . Sleep on it, maybe._ Useless nonsense.

"No. Nothing at all."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Hermione supposed she shouldn't have been shocked that she couldn't quite fall asleep when she retired to the Gryffindor/Ravenclaw barracks after storming out of the dungeons. Every time she closed her eyes, she found herself fighting a dread that Fenrir's words were predictive—that she would sleep and remember. That she'd dream of those lost minutes.

But why should she dread remembering if she  _truly_  didn't have any hint about what might've happened? That could only mean some part of her recalled, and she was actively blocking that stretch of time from her mind.

To prevent any further consideration of what could be so awful that she'd do such a thing to herself, the witch climbed out of bed. She had no idea what to do right now, or where to go, leading her to walk simply to have something to do.

At some point in her aimless wandering, she looked up to see she stood before the lift to the headmaster's office. Professor McGonagall didn't use it, feeling the space _too_  removed from the heart of their stronghold.

_I think you're right. He has his eye on you._  Harry's words from when he'd found her earlier whispered back across her brain just then.  _Can't see any other reason he didn't kill you, or at the very least try to bite you._

She had once thought she loved being right, but not now—not about _that_. Dumbledore and Snape had both used that office most recently. One might suspect that Snape had disposed of anything too . . . Albus-y during his very brief time as headmaster, but knowing he'd been on their side all along probably meant he only got rid of the things that were superficial nods to Dumbledore. Thereby, anything important—like research materials—were likely still up there.

Hermione chewed her lip in thought. With Albus Dumbledore seeming to have such a grand scope of knowledge about, well,  _everything_ , and Snape's obsession with keeping apprised of his enemies weaknesses—though she didn't quite think she could fault him for that—she would bet every galleon in Gringotts there was information up there she'd never hope to find in a library.

Though she, Harry, and Neville were all permitted access to the headmaster's office whenever they needed—in case the teachers required something fetched quickly—she felt oddly as though she was doing something wrong as she entered the lift. Only just barely did she refrain from casting a quick look about. Nothing screamed  _I'm doing something I shouldn't be_  more than nervously glancing around.

The quiet of the lift was a bit unnerving. Had she ever taken this ride alone? She couldn't recall just now, not with the way the air and the silence seemed to press on her.

A sudden impression of someone standing close at her back startled her and her body jerked as her eyes snapped open. Swallowing, she darted her gaze about in the lift. Confirming that no one was with her did not serve to settle her nerves. She really was tired if she'd nodded off standing up just now.

But that wasn't what troubled her. Thinking on that feeling, on that sensation of someone behind her—not _just_  behind her, either, but near enough that she could feel the heat of their skin against hers—brought to mind a very troubling image.

That amber flash of Fenrir Greyback's eyes.

Her brow furrowed as she tried to piece together the meaning, though she really didn't want to. The lift stopped and she stepped out, shaking her head. Had he tried talking to her? She could picture him circling her as he talked, but had that really happened?

Another phantom sensation rippled across her skin, then . . . . Like teeth grazing the side of her throat.

And, again, it was accompanied by that glimpse of Fenrir's eyes.

Wincing, Hermione shook her head.  _Rubbish_. This was just her imagination running away with her after Fenrir's cryptic and suggestive comments. He had probably done that on purpose, hoping it would lure her back down to the dungeons to demand answers from him.

"I'll just . . . remember, myself, or not at all," she said in a whisper before offering a firm nod to the empty room. Though she was loathe to willingly sacrifice her recollections on something that could be important, she did not want to think on it any longer, either.

She frowned as she turned her attention to the bookshelves. Not thinking on it was going to prove much harder as she actively searched for information on werewolves, but she was already up here, and the answers she sought might well be a few page-turns away.

With another nod, Hermione forced herself across the room to start perusing the spines of the headmasters' personal library.

* * *

Orias had lost track of how many minutes it was, now. He stared angrily into Fenrir's cell across the way, Fenrir lay on the floor, his hands folded behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. Every now and again, the new leader of the Dark would turn his attention to his so-called pup for a heartbeat, making an absolute show of sucking his teeth in boredom, and then look back up.

Rolling his eyes, Orias finally broke the silence of the dungeon cells as he asked, "Still not going to tell me what's going on?"

Another noisy instance of teeth-sucking from Fenrir. "Nope."

His massive shoulders sagging, Orias shook his head. He held back a growl for no other reason than that it would do no good. "You at least got a plan for getting us out of here?"

Fenrir shrugged against the ground. "Maybe."

The blond wizard groaned but made no other overt show of his frustration. " _If_  you were to escape . . . . You'd take her with you, wouldn't you? Whether she liked it, or not?"

At that, Fenrir turned his head again to meet Orias' gaze. "Oh, yes."

Orias didn't know if he was amused or irritated with Fenrir's seeming singlemindedness about the little witch. "Bloody hell, mate. Did you get pinched coming here to retrieve me or her?"

Snickering, Fenrir once more went back to staring up at the ceiling. "What? A wolf can't kill two birds with one stone?"

* * *

"Harry!"

The wizard jumped awake at Hermione's whispered shout in his ear. Even as he sat up, he knew she probably didn't entirely hate startling him out of sleep just now, as he'd done it to her often enough.

"Bloody hell, Hermione," he said in a rumbling and exhausted spill of words. Rubbing his fingers against his closed eyes, he shook his head. "What is it?"

"I found something in Dumble . . . in the headmaster's office. I don't know if it'll really help us, but . . . . Oh, just come with me!"

Harry wasn't quite sure why she pretended as though that had been the question. Even before the last word had fallen from her lips, she'd latched both hands around his wrist and started tugging him out of bed.

He held in a sound of tired exasperation. "Yes, Ma'am."

Smirking, she shook her head at him, apparently refusing to relinquish her hold on him—they were already out of the tower, did she think he'd run back to his bed if she let go?—to mimic his finger-wagging as she echoed his earlier statement. "Careful. A woman could get used to hearing that sort of thing."

The sleepy wizard spoke around a yawn as he answered, "I'd return the favor and tell you to shut up, but I've a feeling that'd make you cross."

"Oh, you're only saying that because you think I haven't slept in days."

"You haven't," he pointed out as they stepped into the lift.

"Well, I . . . ." Frowning, she met his gaze for a few seconds before shaking her head. "Oh, shut up, Harry."

Shrugging, he said to no one in particular, "My best friend and this is how she talks to me. Unbelievable."

She laughed, but knew he was right to be worried about her. Sleep simply hadn't been high on her priority list, and this missing memory fiasco was probably more attributed to that than any other factor she could possibly consider.

"I promise after I show you want I found, I will go right back to the tower and sleep until someone needs me, okay?"

"Okay." He didn't believe her, but she had used the word  _promise_ , and he wasn't above using that against her if it was for her own good. "Now what is it you have to show me?"

"Just wait. If I explain it now, it won't make much sense. You being raised as a barely-educated Muggle, and all."

He gaped at her as the lift stopped. "I'd take offense to that if it weren't true. Aunt Petunia probably wouldn't have sent me to proper school at all if not for the fact that it would've raised eyebrows if I  _hadn't_  gone."

"Well, your talent wasn't in Muggle things, anyway. But that's not what I mean." Shaking her head, she tugged him in the direction of the bookshelves. "What I mean is even though it's not an uncommon thing, it's something you might not've encountered in your history studies. I never expected to see one so _literal_  for its purpose, myself."

As the reached that side of the room, he shrugged, not quite getting what had her so excited. But then he noticed . . . .

Pointing to the anomalous thing he did not recognize despite knowing this office so very well, he asked, "Is that a door?"

She grinned, an almost terrifyingly gleeful expression, as she finally let go of his wrist to clap excitedly. "Yes! I found a knot in the back of one of the shelves, and when I pressed it, a portion of the wall vanished, and there it was."

His shoulders drooped. "This better not be the big discovery, Hermione. Because castles having secret passages is sort of common knowledge."

Hermione let out an irritated sigh, once more latching her hand around his wrist to drag him along. "No, no, no. It's what's behind the door!"

"I swear, if its some secret stockpile of sweets . . . you know what? I was going to say I'd be furious, but I don't really think I would be."

Slapping her free hand against her face, she shook her head. "Be serious, Harry."

Pushing open the door, Hermione illuminated her wand and stepped inside. The young man watched her wandering in the semi-darkness before he at last moved to follow.

In the newly-revealed room, he looked around, himself, after lighting his own wand. The walls were bare, but there looked to be some sort of . . . props? Yes, that seemed the only thing to call them, props gathered in a far corner.

"Hermione? What am I supposed to be seeing?"

With that infuriating all-knowing grin of hers, the witch jutted her chin toward his feet. "Look at the floor, Harry."

Frowning in thought, he did as instructed, dropping his gaze and lowering his wandlight. It took a few moments for what he was seeing to make sense.

"Why am I looking at a map of the castle grounds?"

Breathless with excitement all over again, she shook her head and gestured about. The scope of the map was truly something. "Not  _just_  the castle, Harry. The Forbidden Forest, complete with the location of the Centaur's colony, the Black Lake with a layout of Merfolk territory. And those things against the wall? They're . . . like chess pieces. You move them along the map to plan strategies, or get a better view of how a battle is proceeding. Do you know what this is place is, Harry?"

"Um . . . ." He knew—he knew—the answer to her question was literally right in front of him. She  _had_  said it the room was 'literal for its purpose.' But then, he also knew he had moments in which he simply, and genuinely, was not the sharpest tool in the shed. This was one of those moments. "No?"

Hermione beamed, not the slightest bit put off by her best friend's lack of understanding as she turned to stare down at the map etched so painstakingly into the floor—likely spelled to change with their surroundings when necessary, she'd wager. "It's a war room."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_"Stay where you are, Greyback," she said in a hissed breath, the words slipping out from between clenched teeth._

_The werewolf smirked, his hands up in apparent surrender. "You know, when I approached the castle, I hadn't expected that our paths would cross quite this easily. I suppose this is what some people might call 'fate.'"_

_Hermione knew she should stun him, petrify him,_ something _. She had him dead to rights, she should subdue him right this instant and send off a flare to alert the castle. Yet she was doing none of those things. Worse, she couldn't seem to understand_  why _she wasn't doing any of those things._

_Needing to distract from her own wildly unexpected inner conflict, she shook her head. She'd just march him in through the front gates, then. "No such thing as fate."_

_His hands still up, he shrugged. "I had once thought so, too."_

_"Once? What changed your mind?" Dear God, why on earth was she entertaining a conversation with him?!_

_"Running into_ you  _here and now."_

* * *

Hermione started awake. Swallowing hard, she blinked a few times in rapid succession as she looked about the tower's now-cramped common room. She hadn't woken anyone else when she'd jumped back to consciousness, so at least she hadn't let out any sound of shock.

Fenrir had been right. She was recalling what had happened before he knocked her out. But she could not wrap her head around what she'd glimpsed so far. She'd talked to him? She'd ignored the chance to subdue him?

There was something she was clearly missing about the interaction . . . . Something her own timely waking had stopped her from seeing.

She couldn't go back to sleep, now. Her nerves were too raw from recalling even part of that encounter as though it had  _just_ happened.

Although, if she were wholly honest with herself, she didn't want to go back to sleep. She didn't want to re-experience whatever else her own mind was protecting her from. Knowing that, alone, told her that simply going back to sleep was not likely to jar loose any more information about her lost time, not if she was so resistant to remembering.

But she had to know, whether she liked it or not.

Throwing back her covers, she climbed out of bed. Hermione grabbed her wand and shoved her feet into her shoes, grumping and grousing all the while as she made her way out of the tower.

* * *

The bastard had the utter audacity to appear surprised to see her when she stormed into the dungeons. Orias, on the other hand, groaned at the disturbance. He'd managed to fall asleep in his sad little cell—for the first time since he'd roused from that bloody magic-induced coma—and just as he was getting some real sleep, there she was to prod him awake without even trying.

Sitting up, he shook his head. "You make a surprising amount of noise for such a little thing, you know that?"

Hermione peeled her gaze from Greyback's half-amused, half-feigned-surprise expression to glare daggers at Orias. "Shut it, Mulciber. I've no interest in speaking to you just now."

"Oy! Rude."

" _Silencio_!"

Both males looked genuinely shocked at the witch going so far as to loose a silencing charm to prove her point. But Hermione was too close to seething. She was in no mood for button-pushing just now. While she'd been braced for it from Fenrir, she didn't have the emotional fortitude in this moment to handle if from a second direction, as well.

Orias was off his half-broken cot and at the bars in a blink. His fists wrapped tight around the metal, he opened his mouth in what she could plainly tell was a series of bellowed swear words. Oh, if he ever got out of there, she was probably going to pay for this, but she couldn't think that far ahead right now.

Yet . . . seeing him so very angry, and so very unable to do anything about it, was strangely amusing to her.

Barely refraining from letting a grin curve her lips, she returned her attention to Greyback. His brows were high on his forehead as he stared across the way at Orias while the blond man raged and hollered soundlessly.

With a thoughtful frown, he met Hermione's gaze. "This war's making you a bit dark, my pretty little thing. You know that?"

Hermione was too self-aware to let his observation unsettle her. "Got news for you, Greyback, I've always been a little bit dark. Now start talking."

Smirking, he folded his arms across his chest. "Whatever could you want to hear from me?"

"Tell me what happened."

"Memory still a bit fuzzy, hmm?"

She hated that he almost sounded sympathetic. "I remember talking about fate, and then it goes blank. I need to know what happened. I need to know why I didn't strike you down where you stood!"

Sitting forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands before him. Holding her gaze, he shook his head. "Are you sure you  _want_ to hear it?"

"I'm positive I don't want to, but that's the problem." God, why was she explaining this? She should just demand answers and be done with it. It only stoked her anger further that he acted as though he cared if hearing it might be unpleasant for her. "I shouldn't be so positive that I don't want to know unless I have some inkling of what went on and I'm just not letting myself recall it."

His brows arching upward once more, he darted his gaze about, clearly waiting for her to give a clearer answer.

Hermione rolled her eyes as she let her shoulders droop. "I know I don't want to hear it. But I _need_  to know."

Scratching at his beard, Fenrir climbed to his feet and neared the bars of his cell—as closely as the wards would allow. She had to tip back her head to maintain eye-contact. Even if they were normal wizards, these two down here were  _monsters_ based on their massive statures, alone. He was a little shorter than Mulciber, but just as broad and impressively built.

She pretended she didn't find herself forcing a gulp down her throat as she stared up at him.

"You kept questioning me, kept questioning yourself." He shrugged. "Just as you said, you couldn't strike me down, and you had no idea why."

"Sounds like what I recall. G' on."

"I explained that it wasn't that you couldn't do it . . . it was that you wouldn't. Because you didn't actually  _want_  to hurt me."

Hermione thought she might fold in on herself at his words. "What?"

Fenrir's seemingly constant smirk faded a bit as he went on, his voice dropping to a gravelly, oddly mesmerizing pitch. "To prove it, I reached out and grabbed your wand-hand. You didn't pull away. You let me lower your weapon to your side."

She hated that as he said it, she felt like she could recall it happening. But she couldn't stop herself from pushing on. "Then . . . then what?"

"I circled you . . . . Just walked around to stand behind you as you demanded to know why you couldn't hex me. You seemed to think I'd done something to you." He smiled, then. "Wasn't my doing, at all."

"So why? Hmm?"

"You really don't know, do you? Earlier I thought you were simply in shock at someone realizing what you are, but you truly have no idea."

"What? What're you talking about? What am I?"

Fenrir was silent for a few painfully stretched heartbeats, merely holding her gaze before he continued. "I stepped right up behind you. I slipped my arms around you. And you know what you did? You leaned back against me. You said that you hated that it felt natural . . . you hated that you thought you felt drawn to me."

Hermione didn't know why but his words—his  _lies_ —had tears gathering in her eyes. "You're not answering my question, Greyback. What. Am. I?!"

As though he didn't quite hear her, Fenrir went on talking. "I leaned down and I whispered in your ear. I actually apologized to you for what I would have to do, but it was necessary. As I talked, I slid my hands—"

"Enough!" She held her wand aimed at his face. "If I have to dispel every ward on those bars just so I have the chance to  _kill_ you, I'll do it. Just tell me what I am and why I didn't hurt you out there."

He heaved a weighted sigh. "You are going to have to learn to be a lot more fun in the future. Fine. The reason it felt natural, the reason you couldn't hurt me, is because your blood responds to my kind."

His answer made her feel as though she might be going just a little mad. "What? What are you talking about? Why?"

"Because wolf blood runs in your veins. You—Hermione Granger, Muggle-born, Mudblood, whatever people may call you—are the descendant of a werewolf."

Shaking her head, Hermione found herself backpedaling. "No. That's . . . that's not possible."

"Oh, but it is. I smelled it from you the moment we met."

A scowl pinched her features as she swallowed hard. "You're lying because you're trying to manipulate me for something."

Fenrir smirked, once more. "Oh, I assure you  _one_  of those things is true. But only one. If I'm lying, it's not to manipulate you. If I'm manipulating you, I'm using truth to do it. Why don't you run along, now and try to figure out which it is, hmm? Since if you won't believe me, there's nothing more I can tell you."

"I hate you," she said in a lethal murmur as she turned on her heel and stormed to the door. Though she was oblivious to the silenced Orias' emphatic gesturing, she waved her wand over her shoulder, dispelling the silencing charm as she vanished from sight.

* * *

She hid away in her old dorm room as she fretted and puzzled over his revelations . . . . She didn't want to think on it. She didn't want to consider that a single thing he'd just said could be true, but . . . .

That sensation of teeth grazing the side of her throat. That had to have been him, she'd thought it before, and yet—

_"Do you want to know why you won't hurt me?"_

_Swallowing hard, her eyes drifted closed. The feeling of his mouth on her throat was not at all the vile and unpleasant thing she'd expected. "Yes."_

_"Because . . . ." He slid one hand down along her side and then across her hip. His fingers curled against her, cupping between her thighs. The way she shivered, a tiny breathy sound escaping her at the gesture, brought a smile to his lips. "There's a bit of the wolf in your blood, already, Hermione Granger. And that bit of wolf? It_ wants _to belong to me."_

_She moved her head, forcing his wandering lips to nuzzle against her throat even as she protested, "You're lying."_

_"No, I'm not. Though I must apologize to you," he said, even as he kissed the skin below her ear, his fingers working against her in rough strokes. "I don't want to do what I'm about to." Sliding his free hand around hers, he lifted her wand, forcing the weapon to issue a flare._

_The witch couldn't make sense of what was happening. "What do you—?"_

Hermione jumped. Everything had gone black, then. That must've been when he'd knocked her out. He was apologizing for that? Worse . . . she'd let him get so familiar with her.

She'd _let_  him.

Burying her face in her hands, she tried to push the memories away, but all she could hear in her head was the echo of his words.  _There's a bit of the wolf in your blood, already, Hermione Granger. And that bit of wolf? It_ wants _to belong to me._

* * *

"I might actually like her if I didn't want to kill her so much," Orias said with a shake of his head as he eyed the door she'd just disappeared behind. Turning his attention to Fenrir, he asked, "Was that all true? She's a wolf-girl, or something?"

"Oh, it's true. It's rare, but it's true." Fenrir grinned, an almost whimsical expression, as he said, "It's why she's going to make such an amazing fucking werewolf."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"Patience," Lucius said, his voice stern and booming as it cut across the room.

Utter silence fell in the wake of that single word, and he felt oddly satisfied by the immediate obedience. He had so much more control over the rabble under Greyback's thumb than he'd had under Voldemort's. How very odd that a creature he still considered beneath him had established a much clearer and more stable hierarchy in a matter of days than the Dark Lord had managed over years  _and_  a considerably noteworthy return from the dead.

Perhaps it was some wolf thing. That was how packs functioned, after all, wasn't it? Some established pecking order?

Not much time had passed since Greyback had gone to infiltrate the Hogwarts grounds, but the Death Eaters were edgy without clear parameters on what to do with their time until they were to enact their orders. The werewolves were edgier, still, without their leaders' presence. It all made for a combined air of agitation that was likely to make them a more potent force when they were finally unleashed to do their work.

Lucius couldn't say if Fenrir Greyback was a surprisingly brilliant strategist who'd planned for that, or if it was no more than a happy accident.

"I know you all grow restless, but Greyback's orders are clear." Sitting back in his chair, he looked out at the assembly. "The full moon is  _only_ two nights away. Remember, we are simply to create a diversion. I do not care what you must do to keep yourselves in check until then, or what you must do to not cause too many casualties, but his orders are to be followed to the letter."

When another rumble of restless murmur began to bubble up, he tacked on, "Under pain of  _death_." He didn't feel it needed to be clarified that 'pain of death' was a threat which only applied to the werewolves. Death Eaters who disobeyed their new leader faced the bite, which only carried the _possibility_  of death.

It was the possibility of ending up with an unshakable instinctive drive to follow their leader's every whim that frightened them more.

* * *

"This seems like an awful lot of effort to retrieve _one_  God forsaken werewolf," Draco said quietly with a shake of his head.

Narcissa nearly choked on her tea. This was not quite the afternoon discussion she'd been hoping to have with her son. Setting her cup down against its saucer with a delicate clinking sound, she sighed.

The young man had barely touched his own tea, nor the dish of biscuits the elves had set out. Not as though such behavior had been uncommon for him over this last year, but she'd been striving to keep things in the Manor as normal as was within her power for his sake. He might no longer be a child, but she would not stop trying her damnedest to protect him as though he was.

She also didn't particularly enjoy discussing battle plans or strategies, in general, as she ran the risk of anyone outside the family realizing Lucius hadn't married her for her looks  _or_ her bloodline, after all. A witch of her status and privilege who  _also_  had a brain? She'd have had no end of suitors pestering her day and night. If some ill end were to befall Lucius, she'd find herself running that risk, again, as a widow.

But Draco needed reassurance that the Dark's new leader was not sending them on some fool's errand.

Selecting one of the biscuits, she picked at it with delicate pinches, flaking off the edges a bit, but not seeming very interested in actually eating it. "It is not about one werewolf, Draco. Retrieving Mulciber is the objective, but that is not all that he means this force he's combined to accomplish."

"Then tell me, Mother, what is it meant to accomplish?" Draco's nostrils flared as he sneered at no one in particular. "I must've missed your presence at the wartable talks."

Narcissa's blue eyes narrowed in a chilling expression as she met her son's gaze. "Is that  _snark_  I hear, Draco?"

Aware he'd crossed a line—not just from her look, but from the tone of her voice, the one for which Father always found reasons to excuse himself from a room after hearing—he cleared his throat. Shaking his head as he dropped his gaze to the floor, he said, "I'm sorry, Mother, no. I just don't understand what's going on and it's frustrating me."

She picked up her tea for another sip before answering, intentionally giving herself a moment to let her irritation with him settle. "I know, Draco. You're a clever young man, unaccustomed to not grasping a situation. It can't be comfortable, feeling that some simple beast has plotted out a course with reasoning that eludes you."

Once more lifting his gaze to his mother's, he frowned in thought. "You  _do_ understand how I feel."

Her perfectly arched brows pinched together as she nodded. Narcissa returned her attention to the biscuit she was crumbling in her fingers. "It will be away to show what an absolute grip he has on those he now commands. I have no idea how he does it, but supposedly Greyback has  _such_  complete control over his wolves that he can even command them under the full moon."

Draco's eyes widened. "That's why he's so certain his orders about limited causalities will be followed?"

She shrugged. "One would have to assume so. Greyback has no plans for an all-out assault, not yet. By both escaping the castle with Mulciber, _and_  proving that he has a stronger pull on his wolves than even the full moon, what he is doing is sending them a message."

"He wants . . . ." He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "He wants to show them he's just as dangerous a foe as the Dark Lord was, if not . . . ."

"If not?"

Darting his gaze about the room, he sat back heavily in his chair. "If not more dangerous. One thing that could always be counted on with the Dark Lord was that his forces were controlled through fear. Greyback makes threats, but his treatment of his subordinates is wholly different."

Mother nodded. "And what do the werewolves get if one of their own rises to power—true power—in Wizarding Britain? What do the Death Eaters who fall in line and help them get?"

Draco felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. It was so simple. Something Voldemort had never promised, because even had he won, he never would've let a single one of them off their metaphorical chains.

"Freedom. Greyback's controlling everyone with the promise of freedom."

"And because of that, I actually believe he can win."

Sniffling, the young man forced a gulp down his throat. "I'm not sure I do."

Narcissa set down what precious little was left of that poor, victimized biscuit and dusted off her hands on a napkin. Standing, she rounded the table to rest her hands on her son's shoulders. The moment they'd returned home, she had considered that she might have to do this. Her heart ached, but it was what must be done.

"My darling son, I know you fear what will become of you, or of your father and I, should we have chosen the wrong side in this. I need you to understand whatever decisions I have made, I have _always_  made them with your safety in mind. I put my faith in your father, because I believed he knew what was best. Then I put my faith in the Dark Lord, because I believed it was the only way to protect our family. And, then, I put my faith in Harry Potter, because I knew it was the only way to reunite us with you."

"And now you're putting your faith in Greyback is what you're saying?"

"What I'm saying is that I know there were times I had placed my faith in the wrong side of things. But whatever I have done, I have always done it for your sake, Draco." Dropping one hand from his shoulders, Narcissa withdrew her wand. "What I'm saying is . . . .  _If_  you were to slip away from the Manor when no one is paying you any mind . . . if you were to defect to the other side, I don't think anyone would blame you."

" _What_?"

"In their eyes, you're still a child. Still someone prone to whimsical decisions. If you changed sides, believing ours has no hope of winning, it would be understood. Perhaps you think to bargain for your parents safety in the event that Greyback's plans fail. Any number of sympathetic reasons could be offered, in fact."

Draco lowered his head, understanding his mother's insistence. "You want me to—"

"I want you to be safe, always, which is why you'll leave me for the safety of Hogwarts." Swallowing hard, she raised her wand behind his head before going on in a whisper, "And which is why you must forget everything that's happened here."

* * *

Hermione and Harry hurried down the stairs and across the main floor. She'd barely had time to process her returned memories when a burst of light from somewhere near the courtyard burnt through the early evening sky and flickered in through the windows. Wands drawn, they dashed out the castle's front gates and made a bee-line for the direction of Neville's flare.

As they rounded the grounds, the pair stopped short, nearly tripping over each other. The sight that greeted them had them exchanging a surprised glance before they both continued forward.

Neville was trudging toward the castle, visibly unharmed and perhaps even looking a bit irritated. He dragged a very dazed-seeming Draco Malfoy along side him.

"What happened?" Harry asked as he moved to Draco's other side and pulled the pale-haired wizard's free arm around his shoulders.

"No idea," Neville said with a frown. "He just stumbled out of the Dark Forest and collapsed."

Hermione watched Draco's face as the bumbling trio drew nearer. She pivoted on her heel to walk with them as she asked, "What happened to you? What are you doing here?"

Meeting her gaze, he blinked a few times, seemingly scrambling to collect his thoughts. "Granger?"

Her brows shot up at his questioning tone. Whatever'd happened to him, it'd been a doozy. "Yeah, o' course it's me, Malfoy."

Strangely, he actually appeared relieved. Glancing about as they continued to move, he said, "I don't know. Last thing I remember is the Dark Lord falling."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"No, Harry!" Hermione couldn't believe this was even an argument. Draco might not exactly be their best friend, but truly, deep-down Dark, he was not. "We can't stick him in the dungeon!"

The wizard whose temporary fate over which they were bickering sat on the edge of a bed in the hospital wing. A blanket draped around his shoulders, he darted his gaze about the room as he listened to the discussion with a peculiar expression on his face. Hermione thought it clear he was fighting to remember anything from the past week, but Harry seemed rather intentionally oblivious to his struggle.

"And why the bloody hell not?" Harry couldn't believe this was even an argument, either, but for a reason that was nearly opposite. "He's a prisoner of war, Hermione, and that's what you do with prisoners of war. You stick them behind bars!"

"But he is _not_  our prisoner!"

"He's not?

"I'm not?" Draco's surprised question tumbled from his lips barely a second after Harry had asked his.

Her shoulders slumping, she looked from Draco to Harry and back. "No. You're not a prisoner. I think it's plainly obvious that you're a defector. You tried to cross sides, someone caught you sneaking out of . . . wherever the Dark are holed up right now, and they memory-charmed you and delivered you close enough to here that their presence would not be detected, but they could feel assured you'd make it  _here_  safely."

At that, Harry actually shared a glance with Draco. "Plainly obvious, she says."

Draco, confused as he was, snickered in spite of himself.

"Look, if you consider the sheer bloodthirstiness of those on your side . . . . Any of the Death Eaters or werewolves who caught you would've either imprisoned you there, or killed you on sight as a traitor. You were not only let go, you were barred from sharing with us any information over which Greyback might hurt you. Not many people wouldn't have gone to the trouble to assure your safety." She shook her head, looking troubled for a moment.

"What're you saying?"

"I . . . ." Hermione shook her head again and forced a smile. "My observations aren't important. Regardless, you're not going into the dungeons. We'll confine you here, at least until you get a clean bill of health from Madam Pomfrey. After that, maybe we'll find something useful for you to do. Within reason and bearing certain restrictions, of course."

Harry raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Defector or not, he is the one who let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and started the hell this last year has been in the first place. He has to answer for that!"

"Yes, he does. But not here and now." She hadn't wanted to spell it out for him, but he wasn't going to let up until she made sure he understood. "No one else is going to be held in the dungeons as long as Greyback and Mulciber are there. The full moon is nearly here. We could probably suppress their changes with wolfsbane potion, but they'd have to be willing to take it, which I doubt either of them would be—no one would be able to get close enough to either of them to force it down their throats, either.  _And_  we don't even know if the potion would work on someone like Greyback, we've only seen its effects on someone willing to fight their wolf. Greyback embraces that part of himself, what if that would make the potion useless?"

Draco's face pinched in a mild look of disgust. "Could that actually be possible?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, but the point is we don't know that it's  _not_ actually possible, either, and therein lies the problem. That being said, the bars will 'probably' hold them, the wards on Greyback's cell, in particular, will 'probably' hold, but if they don't? If  _all_  the measures we have in place can't contain two transformed werewolves, anyone down there with them would be an easy target, and we would be responsible for knowingly putting them down there in the first place."

Harry groaned, letting his head fall back. "I hate it when you're right."

She granted him a smarmy grin. "I love it when you say that."

"Fine. He'll stay here." He made a point to lock eyes with Draco as he said, "Under guard, until we know he's well  _and_ can figure out some use for him."

"Let's leave Madam Pomfrey to it, then," Hermione suggested. As she took Harry by the elbow and started guiding him—though he moved with deliberately sluggish footfalls—toward the doors, she called over her shoulder to Draco. "You get some rest. For all we know, you suffered an ordeal before arriving here."

Nodding, Draco watched the pair near the exit. His voice was grudging, but his words counted all the same as he said, "Thanks, Granger." After a beat, he tacked on, "Potter . . . I'll be seeing  _you_ around."

Green eyes flashing wide behind his wire rim glasses in a look of anger, Harry spun around. All that stopped him from stomping back across the floor and starting what would probably be his third shouting match with Malfoy since they'd entered the castle was Hermione stepping in front of him and pushing him back toward the doors.

"Hermione, don't you dare—"

"Oh, but Harry," she said in an almost cooing tone as she continued forcing him backward, her splayed hands braced against his chest, "think how much more satisfying it would be to pummel him within an inch of his life when he's in perfect health, rather than already knocked down a few notches?"

Harry gave up the struggle, letting the witch edge him out the doors. "You would speak from experience on striking a Malfoy, yeah?"

"Exactly."

Harry laughed, but once they were far enough away from the doors to the hospital wing, his expression sobered and he latched his hand around her wrist. Pulling her into a corner, he met her gaze with a serious look.

Her face pinched in confusion. "Harry, what—?"

"You're going to tell me what you figured out about what happened to Malfoy, and you're going to tell me, now."

She winced, dropping her attention to the floor. "I . . . I don't think I should tell anyone. At least not until Draco's in a state where he can handle hearing it, first."

"C'mon, Hermione. This is  _me_." He furrowed his brow, his head shaking. "I promise I won't breathe a word to anyone, but at least if you tell me, you won't have to carry whatever it is alone."

"Fine. A week has passed since his last recollection. Yet, he's clean, in fresh clothes, clearly fed and hydrated. He's disoriented, certainly, but doesn't seem much worse for wear. Wherever he was, he managed to make it here safely even without any memory of what he was doing or why. The entire situation, everything we can glean about it, points to someone trying to protect him."

That was when he realized that she didn't want to talk about this for more deeply personal reasons than she'd been willing to admit to, especially in front of Draco Malfoy. "One of his parents did this to him."

Swallowing hard, she nodded, hating the sensation of tears gathering in her eyes. "I can understand going that far to protect someone you love."

"Oh, God, Hermione!" Harry slung his arms around her, pulling her in for a hug. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

She buried her face in the crook of his neck as she let out a sob. Hermione didn't want to give herself time to grieve over any of her losses, but this one instance of facing her suffering was  _long_  overdue. "I just miss parents, Harry. I hate saying that to you, of all people, but I can't help it. I  _know_  they're safe, I know they're better off apart from me until this is all over, but I miss them  _so_ much."

"Don't worry, Hermione," he said, resting his cheek atop her head. "You'll see them again, I promise you."

The witch let herself find comfort in her best friend's embrace, and in his reassuring words, but she knew it was only a temporary solace. She'd once been so sure, herself, that 'when this was all over' was a definite thing. That someday, she'd be a family with her parents again.

The more this dragged on, the more she began to question that.

The more she reflected on what her life had become and what she was learning about herself, the more she doubted 'when this was all over' would ever come.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Minerva blinked rapidly a few times, sitting back in her seat in the Great Hall. Staring at the young witch in front her, she had to deliberately go back over the words that had tumbled from Hermione Granger's lips before she could process the question.

_What is your opinion of werewolves, Professor?_

"I'm not certain what it is your asking, exactly, Miss Granger."

Hermione furrowed her brow at the concern in the headmistress' tone. After a moment, she could only laugh. "No, no, no. You needn't sound worried. This isn't about either of those idiots in our dungeons." She'd known visiting the prisoners twice in less than a day might cause a suspicious eyebrow arch or two, but she'd also known wandering minds needed such frivolous tidbits of potential rumor to help them through tense times such as these.

But she'd never expected Minerva McGonagall to possess a so-called 'wandering mind.' Perhaps that was how she maintained such a stoic façade during trying moments, by toying with nonsense in the back of her head.

"I ask because . . . ." Shaking her head, Hermione frowned as she went on. "Well, we always treated Remus as an exception to a rule. We always considered that werewolves were, baring that exception, like Greyback. But what if we're wrong?"

"Miss Granger, I commend your wish to be compassionate at a time like this—"

"Can't we consider for even a moment that not everyone following Greyback is the sort of creature he is?" Hermione hadn't wanted to be so rude as to cut off the elder witch, but she thought perhaps if she went just a little bit further with what she was asking, then she'd receive actual clarification, not some useless platitude Minerva thought her 'favorite former student' needed to hear. "What if there are those who follow not because they want to, but because they feel they don't have a choice? What if they don't know they  _have_  a choice about the way they are?"

Minerva sighed, giving a headshake of her own. "I'm sorry. But I believe your dear friend Remus  _was_  the exception to the rule."

Frowning, Hermione nodded, unaware her voice slipped out hollow and barely audible as she said, "Oh. I see." She tried to tell herself one witch's opinion did not a fact make, but it was difficult considering how much she valued the opinion of that one witch. "Thank you, Professor."

"Is there something more that troubles you?"

"Hmm?" Forcing her expression to lighten, Hermione shrugged. "No, that was all. It's just hard to believe so many people are beyond saving, I suppose."

With an understanding half-smile, Minerva reached out, patting her hand over Hermione's. "I know. Now, I do not wish to distract you from your thoughts, but I do need you to work with war room, if you would?"

"I haven't forgotten, Professor. I'll get to it straight away."

The younger witch turned on her heel and started through the Great Hall. As she walked, she couldn't help the rough, awful sensation of a lump forming in her throat. She didn't want to think it, didn't want to give it a moment's consideration, but . . . .

If Fenrir was being truthful about her blood, and if Remus was the exception to the rule of werewolf behavior, that meant she was descended from a creature  _like_  Greyback. The very notion made her question if that might not be where that darker nature buried deep inside her—the one she exhibited whenever her temper got the better of her—came from.

* * *

"You did  _what?!_ "

Narcissa was grateful she had her back to Lucius as he bellowed, he could not see how she rolled her eyes at his tone. That would only cause him to yell a bit more.

Sighing, she shook her head and sipped her cognac. The warmth pooling in her belly from the alcohol was just enough to keep her grounded while taking the edge off the rawer of her emotions at the moment.

His nostrils flared as he watched her turn to face him, a curiously disinterested look in her eyes. "This war's lost you your senses!"

"Oh, Lucius, settle yourself. This tantrum is quite unbecoming."

Grey eyes shooting wide, he let out a shocked breath. Try as he might, however, he could not scramble together a response before she was speaking, again.

"I sent him across the battle lines, because I believe he is _safe_  there."

Lucius held in an oddly growl-like sound—too much time surrounded by werewolves, it seemed. "He is safest with _us_."

She shot to her feet, gesturing with her glass so that it surprised them both when none of the liquid spilt free. "He has _never_  been safe with us, Lucius! You may delude yourself into pretending so, but do not stand there and lie to me!"

"You think he's safer at Hogwarts? If Greyback wins and Draco is captured as a defector—"

" _If_! And if he does, I made the proverbial breadcrumbs easy enough to follow that Greyback would realize Draco neither defected of his own volition, nor was able to divulge any information to the other side! I am many things, Lucius, but stupid or short-sighted are not among them!"

A blistering scowl crossing his features, Lucius shook his head. "You think to reason your way out of this?"

"Reason! You speak to me of reason?" She knocked back the last of her cognac and slammed down the tumbler on the nearest surface. "I am  _applying_  reason. Perhaps that is the true issue, as I seem not to have done so in a very long time. For far too long, I have entrusted our family to your judgment.  _You_ have put us on the wrong side of a war, twice.  _Your_ actions saw to our son receiving the Dark Mark while he was still a child. You have allowed your pride to guide you into one grievous error after another and I supported you! No longer. I will not hold my tongue when I feel you are wrong. I will do as I see fit, whether or not it suits your plans."

God, she was right. He hated hearing it, even less did he hate admitting it, but she was absolutely correct. "Cissy—"

"This war has not lost me my senses, Lucius," she said, her tone carefully controlled. "It has lost me my sister. I refuse to lose my son to it, as well."

Lucius watched her turn away. Watched as she retrieved her glass and stormed—elegantly so—back to the table upon which the decanter had been set. Watched as she proceeded to ignore that he was even in the room.

Nodding, he backpedaled toward the door and saw himself out.

Only when she was certain he'd gone beyond earshot did she call out. "I know you're there, may as well show yourself."

A deep sigh rumbled from behind one of the far shelves. She'd had a feeling they'd not been alone in the sitting room when Lucius had stalked in and demanded to know where Draco was. Knowing it would not be long before everyone unraveled her actions, she'd seen no point in sidestepping the conversation for the sake of whomever their inadvertent eavesdropper might be.

After a moment, she heard the shifting of leather and fabric as the person stood from the arm chair hidden there among the books. It was a favorite hiding spot of hers, as well—the little nook faced a window the looked out directly onto the gardens, making it warm and sunlit on a seasonable day. Perfect for curling up with her reading while the rest of the household wondered where she'd disappeared to.

Turning toward the shelf, she saw Antonin Dolohov there.

Her shoulders sloped downward. "Going to run off and share this with the Carrows, are you? Or Rowle, Perhaps? I understand you're shockingly close with all of them."

"Those would be no more than petty rumors, Milady."

She arched a brow at the formality—she'd never before had a direct discussion with Doholov, but she knew he was a half-blood in the Death Eater ranks. Perhaps he'd been conditioned to treat one such as herself with proper courtesy.

"But no." Smirking, he crossed to the table and gestured toward the decanter and stacked tumblers, seeking permission in silence. When she nodded, he poured himself a glass and went on, "Your business with Lucius is your own. That I happened to be near enough to hear it does not make your secret mine to share."

She arched a brow, giving a sideways nod as she sipped. "Not a sentiment I expected to hear from a Death Eater, Mr. Dolohov."

He made a show of bowing, drink in hand. "Please call me Antonin."

As appropriate as he was being, something warned her to remain on guard around him. Something more than his status as a Death Eater, and certainly something other than his place as one of her husband's subordinates.

Caution notwithstanding, Narcissa felt comforted by the pretense of one who might be able to keep a secret around this damnable place.

Nodding, she raised her glass to her lips once more, speaking into it as she said, "Antonin."

The dark-haired wizard smiled, taking a sip from his own drink as he held her gaze.

* * *

"I think I've figured you out," Hermione said to the room as she stepped lightly around the map etched into the floor. Skirting to the edge of the layout, she knelt and tapped her wand against the lines. "Show me the centaur colony, 1977."

A glow erupted from her wand and funneled into the lines in the floor. After a moment of what sounded like gears whirring, the details of the Dark Forest began to shift. The colony crept along the floor a few centimeters. More surprising was the way some of the props set against the wall dragged themselves onto the map to scatter throughout the Forest.

She swallowed hard as she gaped at the effigies. There was no mistaking what they were. "Werewolves?" They dotted the landscape, and while she knew there were werewolves rumored to reside in the Dark Forest all this time, she hadn't expected they'd been in  _this_  number barely twenty years ago.

There were no stories of werewolf colonies, yet there were far too many to have kept their presence, or their numbers, secret for long. All of the members of Greyback's army were recent bite victims, claimed leading up to the war they fought now.

So then . . . ? "What happened to all of you?"

The map let out a hum, rather an impatient sound, she thought, and that was when she realized her wand was still touching the lines. If she didn't know better, she'd swear it was waiting for her to give a command or ask a question.

"Show me what befell those werewolves."

Those invisible gears whirred to life, once more. Just as fast, however, they let out a horrible grinding noise. Wincing, she shouted to be heard over the horrible noise, "Stop!"

The sound died away and the map remained unchanged. Something about this felt . . .  _wrong_.

Watching the lines steadily, she said, "Show me 2nd of May, 1998."

Again, the mechanism jumped to life, lines shifting and props dragging themselves across the room. After a few moments, the Battle of Hogwarts was assembled before her.

Nodding, she let out a breath. "Show me what happened to the Death Eaters."

The snake-and-skull figures retreated with the wolves into the Dark Forest. Somewhere in the middle, the props removed themselves from the map, once more. Clearly that was the point of Apparition.

Pulling her wand from the lines, Hermione sat on her heels, staring at that map. Now she understood how it worked—for the most part. And how easily it had provided an answer for one incident only made her think about the question it hadn't been able to answer.

Had someone charmed this room to hide what had happened to the werewolves of the First War?

* * *

"What happened?!"

Fenrir and Orias both looked up at the witch's voice thundering into the dungeons as the door to the cells flew open. The blond wizard mouthed the words  _What now?_  at the werewolf. Fenrir could only give a mystified shrug in response.

"You're going to have to clarify a bit, Pretty Thing."

Hermione's shoulders drooped as she halted before Fenrir's cell. "During the First Wizarding War. What became of the werewolves in the Dark Forest?"

Again, Fenrir shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"What'd you mean?" She shook her head. "Weren't you in the First War?"

A troubled look flickered across his face. "I was, but I've no memory of what happened in the Forest."

"You mean . . . someone memory-charmed you?"

He was uncharacteristically lacking in that smarmy confidence of his as he nodded. "I'd have to think so. I was with other wolves after pulling back from Hogsmeade, next thing I knew I woke up outside the Forest. When I got back, they were just . . . gone. I don't know who did that to me, or why, but someone ensured I was safely far away from whatever happened."

_Same as Draco._  "Like something a parent might do?"

Fenrir gave her a peculiar expression, then, once more shrugging. "My parents were long dead before the First War."

Her brow furrowed as she held his gaze, nearly against her will. "Then who else could be so invested in your survival?"

He shut down then, visibly, shaking his head as his features went blank. "Fucked if I know. You don't get to have a reputation like mine with an overabundance of people giving a shit what happens to you."

Hermione's face fell at his words—at the realization that as much as she tried to see something in everyone worthy of her compassion, she'd never done so with Fenrir Greyback. She'd never once considered what had made him the so-called savage creature he was said to be.

It had nothing to do with their current situation. Nothing to do with battle plans or the pending full moon, but all the same, she found herself nodding as she said, "I'm going to find out what happened _. Someone_  didn't want anyone to know what became of those werewolves, and I'm to uncover whatever it is." The easy answer was Dumbledore, of course, but timeline aside, she had no definitive proof he was the one using that room.

As she turned on her heel, he said, "Don't suppose you'll let me know if you do manage to find out?"

Hermione paused mid-stride, her tone exhausted. "If what I find directly relates to you in some way, then yes, I will."

Orias' voice cut off whatever Fenrir's response to that might've been, if he even had one. "It's in your scent."

The witch pivoted on her heel to pin him with her gaze. "What are you talking about?"

For clarification, Orias took a long, deep sniff of the air. Meeting her eyes, he said, "If you're questioning what he told you, or how he could know you've got wolf blood? It's in your scent. It's human, but not, werewolf, but not. Sorry, wolf senses are only just starting to kick in."

She forced a gulp down her throat as she shook her head. If Orias was only a werewolf a bloody week, not even changed for the first time, yet, and he had been able to detect the wolf in her scent . . . .

Fenrir made a clicking sound behind her, nodding. "I see the wheels turning, and that's right. Our mutual friend Remus? He'd have known what you are, too. 'S why I thought you already knew what you were. I figured he'd told you."

Once more shaking her head, Hermione finally made her way to the door. Over her shoulder, she said, "Don't call him that. Remus Lupin was _not_ your friend."

She slipped out and shut the door behind her before Greyback could get out any quips, or Mulciber could make any more _helpful_  observations.

Whatever his reasons, she had to believe Remus had her best interest at heart in not telling her about her lineage.

Because to think otherwise would only create another wound she didn't have the luxury of letting heal right now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"With or without their leader, it will make the most sense for the Dark to launch an attack on the full moon." Hermione didn't even look up from the book in her lap as the props moved across the map before her, Harry, and Neville. The wolves slipped from various blindspots along the treeline of the Forest to circle the castle. "They're probably counting on our focus being on divided between defending our stronghold and ensuring the two werewolves in our dungeons stay where they are."

Neville looked at the pile of books around her. All accounts of the First Wizarding War, both published and whatever personal memoirs the library contained. From yesterday evening straight through into this afternoon—not counting when she'd been forced to stop reading and planning in order to take her turn on patrol—she'd been sealed up in here with her self-assigned research about who knew what.

Exchanging a look with Harry, he asked, "When's the last time you slept?"

The witch frowned as she wave her hand in a dismissive gesture. "I—I dunno. That's not important. Look, if we don't prepare appropriately for tomorrow night—"

Harry snatched book from her lap, his rough action cutting short her words. "It might make sense in a logical,  _human_  way for them to attack during the full moon. But werewolves are far too unpredictable while transformed to be any sort of cohesive fighting unit. The most they could do is serve as a distraction while the  _Death Eaters_  try to enter the castle and free Greyback and Mulciber."

"Unless Fenrir's werewolves are more wolf-like than we've been considering."

"What?"

Sighing, Hermione refused to let out a yawn—it would only prove their assertion about how bad she needed some sleep. She also ignored that as she made a grab for her book, Harry shook his head and held it out of easy reach.

Her shoulder drooping, she explained. "All we _really_  know about werewolves is they're vicious, and they're hunted. We know them as solitary creatures, never noted to gather in large numbers. But what if there's a reason for that? What if when they're in a group dynamic, they function more like a wolf-pack?"

It made perfect sense to her. After all, if the reason she'd responded to Greyback the way she had was on account of having some werewolf ancestry, it stood to reason at least a portion of a werewolf's existence was instinct-based. Nothing was more an instinct to wolves than forming a pack.

Perhaps there was a clue in that as to what had become of the First War's wolves? Fear of such a large group translating to a massive pack—an enormous cohesive fighting unit that humans could not hope to replicate on their side—had led unknown parties to wipe them out?

But why hide it if they felt this was such a danger? Would it not have made more sense to publicize it if said unknown parties truly felt they were in the right? That the public needed to know werewolves were capable of functioning in such a manner?

Harry cut into her thoughts. "I hate that you're this sharp when you're exhausted, but you _are_  exhausted, Hermione. And they _are_  without their leader, pack-like or not. The most likely thing they're going to do is try to break out their members. That's what we've got to be on guard about."

Neville nodded, standing and offering his hand to help Hermione to her feet. "C'mon, I'll see you back to the tower. The rest of us will sort this and when you wake up, if you have anything you think will help, or we should alter, tell us  _then_."

She arched a dubious brow at his extended arm.

"Seriously, Hermione, go!" Harry tried for a sympathetic look. "Can't take care of everyone else if you're not taking care of yourself. Take a few hours to get some actual sleep. We won't fall to pieces in your absence, I  _promise_."

"Fine," she said in a grumbling tone. She knew they were only worried about her, and they had no idea why she might be avoiding sleep. The last thing she wanted was a dreamtime-revisit to her encounter with Greyback on the Dark Forest's border.

Slipping her hand into Neville's, she let him pull her to her feet and guide her from the room.

* * *

Justin frowned, looking about the Dark Forest as he held his wand at the ready. "We won't be much longer, will we, Professor?"

Pomona smirked as she held her hand palm-out toward the Whomping Willow. The poor thing barely twitched at their closeness. "Perhaps Minerva should've chosen a more stalwart party as my escort, hmm, Mr. Finch-Fletchley?"

He opened his mouth to snap a retort, but just as fast reminded himself this was not one of his school chums. The lady had easy access to all manner of deadly plant life—best not to get on her bad side by being snarky. "Sorry, Professor, I just . . . ." Swallowing hard, he looked about. "Never been a big fan of the wilds. Even less so  _these_  wilds this close to nightfall."

"It is rather inconvenient, I admit, and I am sorry for that." Shaking her head, she withdrew her wand and cast a mending charm. "This was my first chance to come and see how this poor thing is faring."

His brows shot up at anyone referring to this mass of bark, leaves, and terror as a 'poor thing.' But then, he supposed that affinity for flora was what made her so well-suited toward herbology.

"This spell is slow-working, it'll heal the Willow over time, but in the meanwhile . . . ." Drawing closer, still, to the tree's wide trunk, she tapped a knot with her wand. The entire thing seemed to shiver a moment—the sound of its prematurely drying leaves rustling overhead utterly disquieting—and then stilled, as if settling in from a long, relaxing stretch.

"All right, done here."

Justin glanced back over his shoulder toward the tree as they started back for the castle. "What was that you just did?"

The professor shrugged. "That knot has the ability to temporarily paralyze the tree's limbs. Not even certain how it got there . . . pretty sure it was the result of a prank by some students in the Seventies. Well, whatever the source, I can't remove it, however, the tree needs to have control of itself at all times to mend properly. Once I'm certain it's healed, I'll reactivate the knot from afar for safety, of course."

"But if that thing can hurt the tree, why reactivate it?"

She frowned thoughtfully. "The knot, on its own, isn't harmful. And we never do know when such a failsafe might prove useful."

Pomona was only half paying attention to her less-than-willing bodyguard when she heard an whispered  _oaf_ and a dull thud. The stout little woman spun on her heel, her wand at the ready . . . only to find the young man had caught his foot in a sinkhole and fallen face-first into the forest floor.

Her brows pinched together as she pursed her lips. "Yes, you do inspire much faith in your abilities," she said under her breath as she put away her wand and stooped to help him up.

"Sorry, Professor." He climbed to his feet, patting the dirt from his clothes as she reached for his dropped wand. "Didn't even noticed it."

"It's fine, Mr. Finch-Fletchley." While she held out his wand to him, she couldn't help glancing toward the sinkhole that had tripped him up. "Even the most skilled woodsman can't always tell where there might be . . . ."

"Professor?"

Alarmed by the way her voice trailed off, he stepped toward the hole to see what troubled her. Just as fast, she held up her hand and turned to place herself before him, impeding his progress.

"Nothing. It's nothing. I thought I saw something, but I was mistaken. Time to get back to the castle, or the others will worry."

Forcing a nod, he followed her out of the Forest. She was a Hogwarts professor, and she'd always do what she felt was in the safety of her students, even as they were now fellow soldiers in this war. Regardless, he could not ignore how much he disliked that she'd so blatantly lied to him.

* * *

Minerva looked up from her scroll toward Pomona's face. She'd never seen the woman's expression quite so serious before, even with all they'd suffered through as of late. "A what?"

Licking her lips nervously, Pomona looked about, ensuring they were not overhead. She didn't want to repeat herself, but this matter had to be investigated. "A grave, Minerva. The boy tripped over a  _grave._ "

* * *

Hermione was immeasurably grateful when she awoke a few hours later from a blissfully dreamless sleep. Certainly, REM was the most restorative sleep, but with the images that had visited her most recently, she didn't think tearing herself out of sleep to escape the memory of Fenrir Greyback's wandering lips and hands was what anyone could call  _restorative_.

The sky outside the windows was dark, logic dictated she should simply put her head back down on her pillow and sleep until Harry woke her for her patrol shift. Shaking her head, she threw back her covers and climbed out of bed. Perhaps she needed a little time awake and _not_  fussing herself sick as much as she'd needed actual sleep.

She moved toward the window, her footfalls quiet so as not to disturb anyone else catching some rest right now.

The moon hung, gleaming and so close to full, she thought it must be her imagination at work that the gibbous phase looked a bit swollen—rounder to her eye than normal. She was simply anxious about the full moon, she knew. Stars winked and twinkled and there didn't seem a cloud in sight.

Bracing her elbows against the sill, she let out a wistful sigh. The Hogwarts grounds were really so breathtaking sometimes, it was difficult to recall that it was also the scene of such chaos and turmoil.

That only made her consider  _her_  current inner turmoil, which she'd been staunchly avoiding. Even as she combed through pages and pages searching for some clue about the disappearance of those wolves, she'd managed not to think on Remus' deceit, or his potential reasons for it.

Shaking her head, Hermione looked to the ground. Furrowing her brow, she leaned out a bit, uncertain if she might not still be dreaming as she spotted Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout creeping toward the boundary of the Dark Forest.

They . . . they were behaving as though they did not wish to be seen.

She didn't want to think they could be up to anything—not these two witches! Perhaps this had nothing to do with her or the puzzle she was trying to solve. After all, those woods were the most likely place from where an attack would be launched against them, wasn't it?

Maybe they were only doing recon . . . . Under the dark of night . . . . Just the two of them . . . . As they glanced over their shoulders as though to ensure they were not followed.

Even were that combination not painfully suspicious, something in her gut reminded her there was no such thing as coincidence. She would pretend it wasn't the memory of Fenrir Greyback's voice whispering in her ear.

_"I suppose this is what some people might call 'fate.'"_

_Needing to distract from her own wildly unexpected inner conflict, she shook her head. "No such thing as fate."_

_"I had once thought so, too."_

_"Once? What changed your mind?"_

_"Running into_ you  _here and now."_

This could be wholly innocent. Or, at the very least, wholly have  _nothing_  to do with her, or those lost werewolves, as the lost werewolves had nothing to do with her, anyway, now did they?

She'd just have to prove to herself this had nothing to with  _any_  of that!

With a determined nod, Hermione backpedaled from the window. Turning, she made a beeline for the trunk at the foot of Harry's bed. "Sorry, Harry," she whispered as she threw it open and extracted his Invisibility Cloak. "I know you won't mind if I borrow this for just a few minutes."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Orias awoke in his cell to the scent of blood.

Nostrils flaring, he was on his feet in a blink. Staring about in the never ending semi-darkness of the dungeons, he searched for the source.

Snickering under his breath, Fenrir shook his head. Not paying the younger werewolf any further mind than that, he returned his attention to his work.

Orias tipped his head to one side as his newly-sharpened vision adjusted to the poor lighting. "Is that . . . ? Good  _God_ , man! What've you done to yourself?"

Fenrir held up his free hand in a silencing gesture, his forearm dripping crimson from the elbow. With his other hand, he continued tracing symbols on the floor behind the bars of his cell. "Hush you, you'll break my focus."

"Tell me what in the name of Merlin's right tit you're doing and I'll shut up," the blond wizard retorted in a hissing whisper.

His fellow prisoner answered through clenched teeth, doing everything to maintain his concentration on the task as he spoke. "Old magic . . . . Wolf magic. Probably the very reason wizards have never liked our kind much, only they don't really know this is why. Not anymore."

Seeming awed by the unexpected response, Mulciber nodded, forgetting his own statement just now about shutting up if he got an explanation as he echoed in a low voice, "Wolf magic?"

With a deep, calming breath, Fenrir pulled his gaze from his work to meet his pup's eyes. "As I said,  _old_. Ancient, probably. You heard me tell my pretty little thing that my parents died before the First War?"

Orias nodded once more, hunkering down cross-legged on the floor, as though prepared to settle in for story-time.

Smirking, Fenrir nodded back. "That's true. Those fuckers never taught me shit. This? I learned from the one who bit me. More a parent to me than both of them put together." He returned his attention to his spellwork as he said, "Prove yourself worth what I've given you, and maybe I'll teach you, too."

Mulciber knew Greyback considered lycanthropy a gift rather than a curse or an affliction. But now, learning this—that there was some ancient power only those like him could access? He finally thought he might agree.

After what seemed hours, though logic dictated only minutes had passed, Orias could feel a shiver in the air. He could sense the wards surrounding Greyback's cell weakening. He wasn't certain how, not entirely, but he could feel the potency of that woven magic being leeched away.

There came a sound like the crackling of electricity and then a strange pop. The noises were followed by a release of tension in the air.

That typical smirk of his curving his lips, Greyback climbed to his feet. Looking across the dungeons to the face of his surprised pup, he reached out blindly. His fingers gripping into the lock on the door of his cell, he clenched his hand tight.

The metal buckled and splintered, coming apart in his grip. As the door swung open, he turned back to the bloody sigils he'd drawn on the floor.

"Bollocks . . ." Mulciber said in a barely audible whisper while he watched the other man smear dirt across the spellwork, smudging the symbols beyond recognition. It would probably look more like he'd torn himself up a bit in his escape rather than anything that resembled some old Barbarian magic or whatever the hell this was.

As he watched the werewolf turn and exit the cell to cross to his, Orias truly felt himself in fear of Fenrir Greyback for the first time.

A few strained heartbeats ticked by. Fenrir merely stood before the bars, staring down at Mulciber. Uncertain quite what to do, Orias got his feet under him and stood. He used to think the centimeters he had over the 'so intimidating' creature were amusing. Now he realized how little his larger stature truly meant.

Orias just barely refrained from jumping as he heard another crunch of rending metal. Scowling, he dropped his attention to the source of the noise in time to see Fenrir's hand fall away from the destroyed lock on his own cell door.

He'd been so distracted—how and with what, he wasn't even entirely sure—he hadn't even noticed Fenrir move to grab the lock.

Stepping backward and pulling the door open, Greyback's smirk widened into a grin. "What say we get some fresh air, pup?"

His board shoulders slumping, Orias shook his head as he walked out of his cell and started following Fenrir out of the dungeons. "You going to stop calling me that?"

"Not any time soon."

* * *

Hermione didn't know why she was sneaking. Well, yes, she knew why. Trailing after two of her most respected professors as they slipped into the Forbidden Forest acting rather suspicious was reason enough. But it was hardly as though they'd look over their shoulders and see her. Her footfalls, though light, could easily be mistaken for the sounds made by creatures moving through the brush, and she was not near close enough for either of them to hear her breathing.

Still, she had all she could do to keep her own nerves in check as she pursued them. With everything happening the last few days, she was even more on-edge than she'd felt during the months leading up to last week's battle.

"I've no idea what such a thing would be doing way out here. I barely stopped Mr. Finch-Fletchley from seeing it."

Justin had been out here? Hermione held in a snicker at the mental picture of that consummate worrier wandering about the Dark Forest with Professor Spout as night fell.

"I have never heard of . . . ." Minerva broke off her own words as she shook her head, her voice low and troubled. "Well, we'll have to see what we can find out about this, ourselves, before deciding what's to be done about it."

Hermione recognized this path. They were heading toward the Whomping Willow.

Yet, meters from that massive and violent plant, the elder witches paused. The illumination from their wands let Hermione see that Professor Spout had signaled the headmistress to halt with a hand on her arm.

"There," Pomona said, gesturing.

Nodding, Minerva eased the other witch's hand from her arm. Holding out her wand, she crept toward something.

From where Hermione was, she couldn't make out what they were looking at. Biting back a sigh, she carefully rounded their position. Her attention was so focused on what was ahead of her, she nearly jumped out of her skin as she heard a whispered growl behind her.

"There you are."

Sooner than she could react, a hand clamped over her mouth and an arm wound around her, pinning her wand against her side. She felt herself lifted from the ground, the hood falling back and the sides of the Cloak falling open, dispelling its effect as she was bundled off to one side.

Everything seemed to happen in vacuum, or the moment distorted her senses, as she could still hear the hushed whispering of the witches she was spying on, but their words were lost on her now and her immediate surroundings seemed a void. Nothing in the interaction happening around her made a sound. Not the crunch of dry grass underfoot, nor the breath of her captor as he whisked her through the trees.

More, she sensed—rather than heard—that someone followed close behind them.

Hermione struggled, but the hold on her was too tight. She tried to scream, but the hand over her mouth muffled it to nothing but a rough keening sound—she probably sounded like a bloody bird, or something, from a distance.

Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout were  _just_  far enough away, _just_  distracted enough with whatever they were examining, that they never heard the dull thud of people dropping through the hole under the Whomping Willow and landing in the tunnel below.

"Sorry for this . . . Oh, wait, no I'm not." She heard Mulciber's voice whisper as her wand was wrenched from her hand. " _Stupefy_!"

Her body sagged and she blinked drowsily, trying to hold onto consciousness. That growling whisper . . . she'd suspected, but now she knew for certain that the one carrying her  _had_ to be Fenrir Greyback. That made sense. The Invisibility Cloak wouldn't matter a wink if she was tracked by someone who had a wolf's sense of smell.

"Thank you," Greyback said, his tone relieved as he shifted the witch in his arms to cradle her against him, instead. "But you  _ever_  use an offensive spell on her again, and you'll have to answer to me. Got that?"

She was surprised by the delicate way Greyback carried her—she'd have suspected him the type to carelessly toss her over his shoulder—and even more so by his words to Orias. Letting her head loll against Fenrir's shoulder, she managed to look up at him. God, stunning spells were a bitch. At least it hadn't knocked her out completely.

"How'd you . . . ?"

"Shit, she's not out?" Orias sounded petulant. It was rather amusing to her in her groggy condition to imagine him like a giant toddler. He could certainly do with a pacifier in her opinion. "Here I'd thought I got her good enough to pay her back for that stinging charm she tagged me with."

"You used her own wand on her. You're lucky it was even that effective."

"Right. Right. Shit. She took mine, I remember now. It's probably still back there."

Hermione tried to push herself, aware they were probably going to Apparate once they were far enough out of range of the Hogwarts grounds. In her current state, she'd be far too disoriented by that form of travel to pull together a coherent thought, let alone sentence. As if going from fight or flight response—though in her case, it had been fight—to barely conscious in the space of a heartbeat wasn't disorienting enough all on its own?

"How'd you get out?" she finally manage to ask, her words tumbling out in a disjointed murmur.

"Not sure you're in a fit state to understand it," he answered, his voice sounding strangely sympathetic. She thought perhaps he _wanted_  to tell her, but only while she was in full possession of her faculties. "We'll leave it at 'old magic' for now."

"Old magic." Her eyes were drifting closed of their own volition. She wanted to fight him, she wanted to remind herself how much she feared and loathed him, but right now, it was all she could do to keep herself awake with the lulling motion of his movements as he walked. "You've . . . you've shit timing."

"I've perfect timing."

It took extraordinary effort to furrow her brow at him. "No, no. The professors. They were acting odd . . . investigating something in the Forest. You took me away before I could see what it was."

Fenrir sighed and shook his head. His curiosity was piqued, but this was not the time. "Sorry, pretty thing, you're just going to have to be upset with me for that. We'll add it to the list."

They halted, and Hermione knew what was coming next. Before they could Apparate—using her own damn wand against her, _again_ —she asked, "Why did you take me?"

With a shockingly gentle smile, Fenrir tipped his face down to look at her. "Trust me, you're not going to want to be anywhere near that castle come tomorrow night."

She realized then, in that jarring and disoriented way, that Greyback hadn't been waiting for the full moon at all. His words suggested an assault on the castle was going to take place with or without him.

If he wanted to ensure she was nowhere near the place, then . . . ? She opened her mouth to ask just how bad he thought it was going to be, but the words never came.

The last thing she remembered was Mulciber clamping his hand on Fenrir's shoulder to drag them both side-along as he Apparated.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Lucius blinked rapidly a few times, trying hard to process the sight before him. "Sir?"

Fenrir didn't look at him as he cut through the main floor of Malfoy Manor, making a beeline for the winding staircase. "Hmm?" was all he bothered with in reply as Lucius ducked out of the sitting room entryway to follow after him.

As he walked, aware of Mulciber making his own beeline for the first room with readily-available liquor, Lucius winced, massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers. "Is this really what it looks like?"

There was an odd hint of humor in Fenrir's tone. "And what  _does_  it look like, I wonder?"

Flabbergasted by that flippant response, Lucius nearly tripped over the landing as they reached the second floor. "Well, it looks like you have absconded with Potter's Mudblood."

Turning toward the guest wing, Fenrir shrugged, the meager weight of the unconscious witch in his arms no hindrance to his movements. "Then I suppose it  _is_  what it looks like. Is there a problem, Malfoy?"

Clearing his throat as he lingered in the doorway of the first suite they came across, Lucius watched while Greyback crossed the room. The werewolf laid Hermione Granger upon the bed in a shockingly gentle maneuver.

Only when Greyback looked up from where he sat on the edge of the mattress did Lucius realize he'd stalled. He hadn't even noticed how distracted he'd been with his new leader's treatment of the girl. He'd expected many things if Fenrir Greyback had ever gotten his hands on Miss Granger, again. Treating her as though she was made of spun glass did not make the list.

"No problem, Sir," he finally forced himself to say. "I simply am . . . surprised at your early arrival. I was under the impression tomorrow evening's mission was a diversion to facilitate your escape with Mulciber."

Inhaling deep, Fenrir nodded as he stood and walked across the floor to stand before Lucius. Both towering figures, they saw eye-to-eye in the most literal sense of the term. Amusing. "That is what I needed everyone to believe, Malfoy, including you. I did not know who to trust with my plans. The mission is still on, make no mistake. I just knew I couldn't have her in the castle when the time came."

"But you said the assault is only to be—"

"And I meant that. Limited casualties, a show of control so they understand they're not dealing with some poorly assembled group of beasts and mad men."

Sighing, Lucius gestured past him toward the Mudblood. "Then why this?" He would admit, despite his misgivings about Greyback as his leader, he felt much less trodden upon than he had under Voldemort's rule.

Never would the Dark Lord have entertained the questioning of his decisions like this. Greyback, on the other hand, seemed to understand that on occasion, one's subordinates  _needed_  answers in order to keep performing to the best of their abilities.

With a quick glance out into the corridor, Fenrir backpedaled into the room a step and dragged Lucius with him. Using the wand he'd nicked from Mulciber after they'd appeared on the boundary of the Manor grounds— _her_  wand—he cast a quick silencing charm around them.

Lucius looked about, startled. Clearly this was a matter worth knowing.

"This girl . . . she is special," Fenrir said, shaking his head. "Not simply to me. She is unique because despite her Muggleborn status, werewolf blood runs through her veins."

His grey eyes shooting wide, the pale-haired wizard glanced toward the bed before returning his attention to the other man. "You're certain?"

"Knew it from the moment I first encountered her. I can't have her in the castle when the werewolves are there tomorrow night. The full moon will strengthen the smell of her blood and it would draw them to her. It would be a  _slaughter_  from them simply trying to get to her. Here, I can ward and protect her, myself."

"As you mean to save her _for_  yourself?"

Snickering, Fenrir tapped his fingertip against his nose. "But that is not a concern for now." He dispelled the silencing charm and then led Lucius out into the corridor.

As he began warding the room, he looked over his shoulder at his second-in-command. "Now, to business. You kept the others in line? Focused on tomorrow night?"

"Of course."

And, for the very important question . . . . "And you did so  _in_  my name?"

Lucius understood then. This, too, had been part of his plan all along. A test of whether or not Lucius would still follow Geryback's orders when he was not there to witness it.

Knowing full well he was able to answer truthfully, Lucius grinned and bowed his head as he said, "Yes, Sir. They knew _everything_  I said came from you."

With a nod, Fenrir relaxed visibly, his attention on his casting. "I said it before and I'll say it again—the Dark Lord really never did properly appreciate you, Malfoy."

"Thank you, Sir," Lucius said, once more feeling a swell of pride that he never truly was allowed when he served Voldemort.

He thought perhaps it was time to stop fussing over being in league with werewolves, after all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Harry raked his fingers through his hair as he looked around the dungeons. "How the hell did they manage this?" There was nothing to be told for what really happened outside of some smears of blood and mangled metal.

No way could Greyback just have torn his way through those wards the way he would've the bars.

Neville sat on the floor outside the door to the cells, wincing as he nursed the nasty, bloody bump on the back of his head. He still couldn't believe they'd bothered leaving him alive. "No idea, mate. Whatever was going on in here, they managed to be quiet about it, 'cause I never heard a peep until the door burst open."

"It's okay, Neville; they got the jump on you. Could've happened to anyone." Shaking his head, Harry made his way back to the splintered door and helped Neville to his feet. "Let's get you to Madam Pomfrey. She'll want to have a look at that head wound."

"I'd argue, but I'm afraid if I raise my voice, I just might lose the last meal I ate."

Harry only grimaced, but kept any comments on that to himself. Nausea? They'd be lucky if Neville didn't have a concussion. Still, he puzzled over the werewolves' decision to leave the wizard alive as they made their way through the basement and up the staircase to the main floor.

When they entered the hospital wing, they were greeted by the sight of a lounging Draco Malfoy, asleep with a book fallen on his face. Madam Pomfrey looked up from behind the front desk, immediately bustling around it to stand before Neville.

"Oh, what happened here?"

"Our prisoners made a break for it," Harry answered, his voice low in consideration of Neville's current state. He assisted the Medi-witch in getting the other wizard settled on a bed.

Poppy's eyes shot wide. "I'm surprised they didn't kill him."

Harry only shrugged. "They were unarmed, as far as I can tell. Maybe they thought risking combat with him might draw too much attention. Seems they were right, since they didn't raise any alarms on the way out. So far, only ones who know they've escaped are the three of us, I think."

"Four of us," Draco said in a sleepy tumble of words, though he didn't move, not even to lift the book.

Harry rolled his eyes. Neville snickered at Harry's obvious displeasure, but cut the mirthful sound short with a cringe and a hissing breath. "Remind me not to laugh until the pain in my head stops."

Though he opened his mouth to quip a response, Harry's reply never came as Justin burst through the doors of the hospital wing. "Has anyone seen Hermione?"

Exchanging a glance, Harry and Neville both shook their heads—though the latter sorely regretted the movement nearly as fast as he'd done it.

"Shit."

Harry rounded Neville's bed to clap his hands over Justin's shoulders, giving him a bit of a shake. He barely noticed Draco at last pulling the book from his face and sitting up. "Justin?"

Chewing his lower lip in agitation, Justin held up his hands. "I went to wake her for her patrol shift, and she was gone. I can't find her anywhere."

The werewolves were missing . . . and so was  _Hermione_? Harry started for the doors without another word.

While they'd been safely behind bars, Fenrir's fixation on the witch had seemed harmless enough, even almost laughable. But now? Now the very thought took on an ominous feel that bothered him to his core.

"Malfoy, where d'you think you're going?"

His shoulders slumping, Harry turned on his heel to face the room at Neville's words. He scowled as he watched the pale-haired wizard cross the floor, apparently under the impression he'd tag along.

"Oy. Like Neville said, where d'you think you're going?"

Rolling his eyes, Draco uttered a short sound of disgust in the back of his throat. "To _help_?"

Even Justin looked skeptical at the declaration, and he barely knew Draco Malfoy, personally. Some character quirks simply proceeded people that way, Harry supposed.

Before Harry could question the likelihood of a Malfoy understanding the meaning of the word  _help_ , Draco clarified. "Look, you said I only had to be here until I got a clean bill of health, and then you lot would find  _some_ way for me to be of use around here."

Harry opened his mouth to point out that Hermione was the one who'd said that, he'd simply agreed to it, but then that was probably the reason Malfoy wanted to do something to assist. If he could help, he could repay Hermione for being considerate toward him without  _actually_  having to say anything. If he was barred from that, he might have to—God forbid—say something more than the 'thank you' he'd already offered her at some point.

The  _horror_!

Looking to Madam Pomfrey, Harry desperately hoped she'd tell him otherwise as he asked, "Well?  _Does_  he have a clean bill of health?"

Very obviously holding in a snicker as she started her examination of Neville's injury, she nodded. "Sorry, Mr. Potter, I know you want a different answer, but yes, he does."

"Fine," Harry said, practically growling the word. He stepped through the doors, pointedly letting them slam behind him, right in Draco's face.

Draco threw up his hands, already exasperated with Potter. "Oh, nice. This how you treat people you work with, is it?"

Neville held in a chuckle as he watched Malfoy throw open the doors and disappear outside. "Think it's a bad idea."

"I don't know." Poppy shrugged as she continued her careful and deliberate wand-scan. "They're both quite intelligent enough to find Miss Granger."

"It's not their brains that's the problem," Neville said, forcing himself to refrain from shaking his head. "It's that they might kill each other before they get the chance to actually look for her."

* * *

Draco stood in the doorway of the war room, unable to believe what he was seeing. "This will sound like a stupid question, but has this always been here?"

Rolling his eyes, Harry went straight to the map. "It sounds stupid because it is stupid. Of course this has always been here, we just didn't know about it until the other day."

"Okay fine," Draco conceded with a scowl as he followed Harry. "Not stupid question: how's a map going to help us find Granger?"

"I don't know that it will help us find her, but it'll help us figure out where she's gone."

Draco's brow furrowed. How were those  _not_  the same thing? "Um . . . _what_?"

"Shhh. Hermione told me the map can be used to look back at past events." Kneeling before the etched lines, Harry touched his wand to them. Uncertain quite when the werewolves had broken out, exactly, he tried for an explanation of events, instead. "Show me Fenrir Greyback and Orias Mulciber escaping the castle earlier tonight."

The lines of the map jumped to life, filling with light from Harry's wand. Watching as two wolves dragged themselves from the collection of props, Draco dropped himself down to sit beside Harry, wide-eyed.

The thing that bothered Harry was not the way the wolves crept across the outline of the castle, clearly evading points where they might alert the castle's residents. It was that other props dragged themselves out to enter the map, as well—a badger, and two winged lions.

The meaning of the figures was obvious to him—two Gryffindors and a Hufflepuff. One Gryffindor had planted itself in the castle only to leave, trailing the other winged lion and the badger as they crossed the boundary of the Dark Forest.

As the lead pair neared the Whomping Willow, the wolves slipped into the Forest, as well. They seemed to alternate their positions as they followed the lone Gryffindor figure.

Harry swallowed hard, knowing what was coming, but dreading watching it unfold all the same. The wolves advanced, capturing the winged lion between them and then rounding through the trees.

Draco gestured toward the other Gryffindor and the Hufflepuff. "Look at the scale. Whoever else was out there, with that distance, they probably didn't hear a thing."

Harry nodded, hating that Draco was right. The only potential witnesses probably hadn't seen or heard _anything_  useful.

The wolves and their captive made their way to the Willow. They followed the route Harry knew too well was the tunnel beneath the massive tree which led to the Shrieking Shack. But then . . . .

"What's that mean?" Draco asked as the pieces dragged themselves off the board, long before the point where the tunnel would've met the edge of the map.

"They Apparated." Harry shook his head as he withdrew his wand and climbed to his feet. "They literally stole Hermione and vanished."

Looking from the map as the left over props removed themselves to Potter's retreating back, Draco said, "Where're you going now?"

"We." Harry didn't bother even looking over his shoulder. " _We_  are going to investigate what just happened in the Dark Forest, ourselves. And we're going to find out who that Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were, and what they were doing out there in in the dead of night in the first place."

Dropping back his head, Draco let out a groan as he stood and followed. "Dark Forest in the middle of the night. Again. Because of  _you_. Like I needed another reason to hate you."

* * *

Hermione stretched, unaware for a moment of how odd it was that she felt so rested. She felt warm. Comfortable. As though she was coming out of a deep sleep. But she didn't remember—

Bolting upright as she snapped her eyes open, she looked around. She didn't remember going to bed! Out of force of habit, she groped around blindly for her wand. When her hand came up empty and she connected the décor of the room to the place she  _thought_  this might be, her last memories floated back to her.

Mulciber and Greyback had kidnapped her right under everyone's noses and brought her to Malfoy Manor. It made sense the Dark had fallen back here, she supposed, it was an ideal place for their combined force.

As she recalled being so helpless in Greyback's arms, being carried about like a useless little lump and unable to do anything more than ask questions and brace for unconsciousness, she saw  _red_. She wanted to tear Fenrir Greyback limb from limb with her bare hands.

Jumping out of bed, she hurried to the open door only to be repelled as she tried to cross the threshold. She let out a hissing breath and eyed the doorway in anger.

The darkened sky through the windows told her it was likely only a handful of hours since they'd taken her from Hogwarts. Approaching the warded doorway as closely as she dared, she peered out into the corridor.

"Greyback! Dammit Greyback, get over here!"

She heard heavy footfalls and a snickering breath. But it didn't sound like Greyback's laugh, which already felt oddly familiar to her.

Arching a brow, she swiveled to face the one approaching the room. "Mulciber."

With an annoyingly charming grin lighting his bearded face, Orias leaned against the other side of the doorjamb. "Well, well," he said as he folded his arms across his chest. "Not so fun being the one  _inside_  the cage, now is it?"

Narrowing her eyes, the witch shook her head. "I'm sorry, don't you have anything better to do than bother me?"

A thoughtful look touching his features, he seemed to genuinely think that over before shaking his head. "Nope. I can stand here _all_ night bothering you and there's not a thing you can do to stop me."

"You'd think so wouldn't you?" Glaring up at him, Hermione backpedaled a step and grabbed the door, slamming it shut between them.

"Oh, that's mature." He made a soft humming sound. "You know, door closed or not, these old Wizarding houses aren't exactly sound proof. I can just stand here and keep talking and talking and—"

The mountain of a wizard's words were cut short by the sound of Hermione wrenching the door open to glare up at him once more.

His eyebrows drew upward and he tipped his head to one side as he held her angry gaze.

"Okay," she said taking a deep breath and very, irritatingly, aware she was just as helpless trapped in this room as she'd been after he'd smacked her with that stunning spell. "You're right. You can stand there and annoy me all night long and there is nothing I can do about it."

Orias laughed at the frustration in her tone.

"But at least tell me why you'd do that."

Features pinching in thought, he said, "It's because of Greyback."

She looked doubtful of his answer. "You're standing there, ready to waste your night pestering me, because he told you to?"

"What? No." He gave her a once-over before again meeting her eyes with an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. "It's because I'm curious what he sees in you."

"He told you, right? I mean, he told both of us, really. It's because I've got werewolf blood. That's all."

"Is it? Is that _really_  all?"

Hermione felt her eyes widening of their own volition as he leaned down a bit, looking as closely at her as the warded doorway would allow. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Orias frowned thoughtfully, again tipping his head as he held her gaze. "I think you are sure. I think you know there's something more to this. I think his fascination with you has to do with  _more_ than just your blood, Little Witch."

"You're mad," she whispered, painfully aware that despite the ward, she could feel his breath on her skin due to how close they stood.

He arched a brow. "Am I? Or are you just afraid I'm right?"

Swallowing hard, she only gaped at him, uncertain what to say.

"I aim to find out for myself what he sees in you." He tacked on the words he had a feeling she would not dare think about the other werewolf for fear they might be true. "He's absolutely  _enamored_  of you, I want understand what all the fuss is about."

She didn't know what was more alarming, that he was suggesting Fenrir Greyback could have actual feelings toward her, or that the gravelly pitch of his murmured voice just now seemed to edge along her skin, warm and pleasant.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

First that moment with Greyback at the edge of the Dark Forest, and then getting all tingly from Mulciber's voice? What the bloody hell was wrong with her?

Hermione managed to martial her senses enough to change the subject. In hindsight, she couldn't quite recall to what, but now, roughly twenty minutes after he'd said that very unsettling thing to her about Fenrir's feelings, they sat on the floor on either side of the warded doorway  _chatting,_  only to circle back to the question of her lineage.

"I really have no idea," she said, shrugging—they mirrored each other, leaning against opposite sides of the doorjamb. "I never even considered it was possible I had a werewolf ancestor until Greyback said it."

Orias' brows climbed his forehead. "So? That's just it? He said it and you believe him?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "Sorry, weren't you the one all 'oh, it's there in your scent?'"

Snickering in spite of himself, he shook his head. "You really need to work on your impressions, because that was just  _awful_."

"You're insufferable."

"Oh, and look at that. You just mispronounced 'charming'." He laughed and again shook his head. "You're a right little mess, aren't you? You're just lucky I happened along."

Somehow, she found herself laughing with him. Pressing her hand to her forehead, she let her eyes drift closed. "How the _hell_  did I end up here?"

"Memory fuzzy, or you having an introspective moment, there?"

Tipping her head back, she glared daggers at the ceiling. "I was so focused on what the professors were doing out there that I never even heard you two behind me."

"So . . . ." He shifted back, resting more comfortably against the doorjamb and stretching out his legs to cross them at the ankles—he'd pretend, for now, that he didn't notice the way she watched the maneuver from the corner of her eye. Clearly she was a fan of movements that drew attention to his height. "What do _you_  think those two little old biddies could've been up to?"

Sighing, the witch rested her elbows on her knees and dropped her chin down against her palms. He thought it was an amusing contrast—his change in position drew attention to how large he was, while hers accentuated her petite stature.

"I can't even imagine. It just felt off, somehow." Narrowing her eyes in thought, she shook her head. "I couldn't think of anything that would be so pressing that they'd need to investigate it at night, just the two of them. And they were acting like they didn't want to be seen. I just . . . ." Swallowing hard, she looked away. "With everything that's happened, I couldn't sit by and let myself think something awful about those two women. I think I wanted to prove to myself that whatever they were looking into, it was for the best of anyone potentially involved."

He nodded. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry we pulled you away from finding out whatever it was."

She met his gaze, blinking a few times in rapid succession as though she did not understand the words that had just come out of his mouth. Death Eaters saying 'sorry' was right up there with Draco Malfoy thanking her yesterday in how utterly unbelievable it was.

Hermione dropped her hands and leaned closer to the exact placement of the ward that stood between them. In response, Orias pulled back, arching his brow at the movement.

"Are you  _really_?"

"Hmm." He tapped his finger against his chin. "No, I take it back. I'm actually not sorry, because taking you had to be done, _but_  I do appreciate how frustrating unanswered questions can be."

"Had to be done? Kidnapping me  _had_ to be done?"

His eyes narrowed in a malicious look. He didn't at all like the way her volume was climbing. "Oy! Don't take a tone with me, Little Witch. It's what Greyback said!"

Clenching her teeth, Hermione sat up on her knees so she was eye-level with him. "Don't tell me if I can take a tone or not, you . . . bloody damn mountain! I have  _every_  right to take a tone. I have every right to be angry, here!"

"And _I_  said it was what Greyback told me had to be done!"

Holding his enraged gaze, she pointedly dropped her voice to a more reasonable decibel as she asked, "And so you just fall inline with what he tells you now, do you?"

Orias' eyes widened as her question sank in. "I . . . I didn't . . . ." She was right. Just days ago, he wanted to rip Greyback limb from limb, but now? Now Greyback commanded something and he just snapped to?

His massive frame seemed to sag against the doorjamb, then. "It's because of what he's made me, isn't it?"

Unsure what to feel at his sudden change in demeanor, Hermione settled back down. She didn't expect someone like him to be so shaken by a simple question. "I think . . . I think so. Everyone's always known Fenrir Greyback isn't quite like your average werewolf. He's stronger, he's . . . a bit closer to the wolf, I think. And now he's built this army? Which, let's be honest, is really just a massive pack."

Orias looked at her as though she'd sprouted a second head. "I'm sorry, is this your attempt to settle me down? Because you're doing a shit job of it!"

"Oh, so I'm the only person who feels better at having explanations for things?"

For a few heartbeats, he only held her gaze. With a dismissive wave, he shook his head and looked away. "G' on."

"What I'm saying is maybe this close to the full moon you  _can't_ disobey him because of something to do with that dynamic between pack members." She sighed and shook her head. This was exactly what she'd been trying to tell Harry. "I don't have all the answers. And I'm especially out of sorts right now about this, because never before have werewolves been noted to act like _real_  wolves. But what if that's only because the ones the Wizarding world is familiar with have always been solitary creatures? What if werewolf packs are actually a real thing that we just never knew about?"

"So I'm following him out of instinct, then?"

"It's possible." Again, her mind flitted back to that moment at the Forest boundary when her body seemed to want nothing more than to let Fenrir Greyback do scandalous things to her. "Instincts can be . . . troubling. And I think the more he connects with what it's like to be a wolf over simply being a 'were'-wolf . . . the more power he has over the wolves around him."

There was something in the pitch of her voice that sparked his curiosity anew.

Mulciber tipped his head to one side as his gaze held hers. "Did your instincts tell you something, too, then, Little Witch?"

Shrugging, she tried—and failed—to tear her attention from him. God, why was she even talking to him about this? Oh, right. Because she had no one else to talk to, nothing else to do, and he wouldn't just go the bloody hell away. "Maybe. I . . . I don't know what came over me, but . . . it was like I couldn't tell him no. Like I didn't want to."

He glanced at her mouth for a quick moment before he asked, "And is that just him, you think? Or could you respond to another werewolf like that, too?"

She didn't like how intensely he was looking at her now. Rather, she did like it and that was why she  _didn't._  Forcing herself to stand, she said, "I'll ask again—do you really not have anything better to do than bother me?"

Staying right where he was, he stared up at her. "And I'll answer again—no, I really don't."

"But isn't Greyback planning some sort of assault? Shouldn't you be in on that?"

Mulciber shrugged. "No. I'm being confined here during the full moon. The others are going."

"What?" She darted her gaze about the room, as though hoping a reasonable explanation would crawl out of the woodwork and present itself before her. "Why?"

"Because he's too powerful a weapon."

Hermione's gaze shot to Greyback as he made his way down the corridor toward them. Orias still didn't get up, merely looking over at the other werewolf. He supposed he could attack Fenrir, but if what the little witch had said was true, all it would take was a snap of Greyback's goddamned fingers to make him stop. Wasted effort that would be.

"What do you mean?" she asked, hoping that keeping herself talking, that keeping the words flowing, would stop her from examining how her skin warmed at the sight of him. Damn wolf blood and impending full moons and memories of wandering fingers and grazing teeth . . . .  _Bloody hell, Hermione!_

"Since you'll be my guest here a while, there's no harm in telling you." Greyback folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorjamb opposite Mulciber's position. "Tomorrow night's so-called 'assault' is really more of a maneuver. My wolves aren't going to do any real damage to your people. It's a warning. A show of—"

"A show of controllable force," she finished for him, her tone one of awe. "I was right. This army of yours functions like a giant wolf pack. Which makes you—"

"Which makes me the alpha." Fenrir grinned, confirming her theory whether he realized it or not.

"I told Harry, you know," she said, nodding. "I warned him about this very thing."

"I suspected you might if you figured it out, but the real question is did he _listen_  to you?"

The way her shoulders slumped was all the answer he'd needed. "He . . . ." Frowning, she walked further into her room, sinking down on the edge of the bed. "He brushed me off because I was so tired at the time. But my point  _was_  valid, so . . . he might've listened!"

Greyback seemed unfazed by the hopefulness and certainty in her tone. "It's one of the flaws of most humans, my pretty thing. No matter what they're told, they often won't believe something until they see it with their own eyes. Even when they trust the source."

Closing her eyes, she nodded. "So you mean to show them that it's true? That werewolves  _can_  be in control on a full moon?"

"Exactly."

"To what end? Don't you want to take over, like  _he_  did?"

Fenrir let out a surprised laugh that made Mulciber, still lounging at his feet, jump a bit. "You think I want what Voldemort wanted? Why? Because I took his forces? No! That was a battlefield opportunity that would've been unwise to pass up."

Hermione opened her eyes and turned her attention to him. "I still don't understand why."

"Isn't it obvious?"

She shot to her feet, anger twisting her expression as though he'd just insulted her intelligence. "No! It's not obvious, or I wouldn't be asking!"

"It's so wizards will leave  _us_ the bloody hell alone!"

The witch could barely believe her ears. "What? All this is—"

"All this is so that I, and those like me, can stop being hunted! That's all it's  _ever_  been about! I'm not sending Mulciber out there because tomorrow night's full moon is a warning shot! This man will be a terror if he's let loose on a full moon. Truth be told, I don't even know if I'll be able to keep him reigned come moonrise."

Orias was thunderstruck, hearing himself spoken of as though he wasn't there, moreover, as though he was an object intended to strike fear in the hearts of their enemies. True, he'd always wanted a reputation like that, but he wasn't quite certain this was what he'd had in mind.

His shoulders slumping, Fenrir looked down at Orias, understanding his turmoil. "I'm sorry, but it's true. Tomorrow night, I've got to keep an eye you and see just how out of hand you might get."

"I suppose I understand," Orias said, though he still looked troubled. "You didn't exactly plan to bite me, after all, right?"

Hermione held back the urge to roll her eyes. This was _not_  the time for a werewolf heart-to-heart! "Wait, wait. You're serious? That's all you want?"

Fenrir returned his attention to her. "All?  _All?!_  It's freedom. It's  _everything_. You fear me because I'm 'savage', right? I'm called savage for trying to make more of my kind, for fighting back when I've been hunted and cornered!"

"If that's so, then why not just leave?" she asked, her voice low in jarring contrast to his near-shouting. "Why not just go somewhere else, anywhere else?"

Lowering his head, he sighed, a hopeless sound that strangely weighed on her. "Because it's the same for us everywhere. Don't you get that?"

He was honestly expecting her to buy all of this? That he was really some victim? That his wants, that his plans, were so simple and reasonable?

But then, he didn't need to tell her anything, at all. It was possible he thought this would win her to his side.

"I . . . I don't know that I believe you."

Sighing again, Greyback stepped into the room. "Believe me or don't, it's up to you. Your belief, or anyone else's, doesn't change my reality."

Hermione and Orias exchanged a look at Fenrir easily passing through the ward.

Fenrir's brows pinched together at their surprise. "Of course I can come and go through a ward  _I_ wove as I please," he said with a shake of his head.

She seemed unable to move as he reached out, running his fingers through her hair.

"As I said, believe what you will. It doesn't matter, not really."

Swallowing hard, she watched from the corner of her eye as the ends of her locks slipped out of his hand. She hated that she felt the urge to lean closer to his touch.

"So then what does matter to you about me Greyback?"

He smirked, tipping his head to one side. "For now? That you're safe." Turning on his heel, he exited the room, beckoning Mulciber to get to his feet and follow as he disappeared down the corridor toward the staircase.

Closing her eyes, Hermione sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, once more. She had no idea what to make of any of this. She was angry, she was wounded, she was . . . horrified by her own reactions to both of the werewolves who'd just been here.

And she was useless. In this moment, she was more useless than she'd been when that stupid Basilisk had petrified her.

If what Greyback said was true, then she was in serious danger of sympathizing with her enemy.

If it was true . . . then her enemy had a side that perhaps should be sympathized with.

And if it wasn't?

Pulling her legs up in front of her and resting her forehead against her knees, she promised herself that if he wasn't telling the truth about what he wanted from dragging out the War, she'd kill him herself.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Harry frowned, following the impressions in the soil by wand-light. He'd followed Hermione's trail from the castle based on what the map had shown him, and sure enough, at some point, two other sets of tracks approached from behind to pop up on either side of her. But then her footprints vanished, and only the two larger, heavier sets continued on toward the Whomping Willow.

He wasn't incredibly adept at this sort of thing, but he thought it fairly obvious that—

"Do you  _actually_  know what you're doing?"

Fairly obvious that Malfoy needed to shut the bloody hell up and climb off Harry's back, already! Letting out a hissing breath from between clenched teeth, Harry straightened up and pivoted to face the other wizard. "I know a little bit of it. Just enough to know what we're looking for, and that's only because of the forest floor is made of  _dirt_ —you know? Picks up footprints and shit like that pretty easy."

Draco rolled his eyes, hardly impressed with Potter's survivalist pedigree. "All right, Mr. Wilderness. What've you got so far?"

"Well, Hermione's footprints stop here, where she encounters Greyback and Mulciber, and the two werewolves continue on. There's no sort of shuffling or interrupted impressions I can see, so I don't think there was a struggle."

"Well, there wouldn't be, would there?" Draco asked with scowl. Honestly, how did Granger make it through seven years worth of conversations with someone as thick as this one? "They're both twice her size. If they managed to sneak up on her, which I'm fairly certain they probably did, they likely knocked her out and carried her. Or, if she did struggle, it wasn't anything that we'd notice, because they're  _twice her size_. Either of them could've easily overpowered her and kept walking while carrying her like it was nothing."

Harry's nostrils flared as he met Malfoy's gaze in the dim wash of illumination from their wands. He didn't hate Hermione being right, he realized. He hated _Malfoy_  being right.

"Fine, you've a point."

"Bloody hell, Potter. Why was it even a question? You couldn't think she went with them willingly."

"I didn't think that!" Harry shook his head, turning on his heel and walking off in what seemed a random direction. "But Greyback's shown that he's got a bit of a hang up with her. I guess I just wanted to make sure that whatever happened out here, he didn't hurt her."

"Oh." Nodding, Draco trailed after him. "So the footprint rubbish was secondary. What you were really looking for was—"

"Blood, yeah. I came out here hoping I wouldn't find anything like that, but I had to know. As long as he's not hurting her, there's a chance I can get her back unharmed."

"Wait, wait." Clearly not thinking it through, Draco grabbed Harry by the elbow and turned him around. The gesture was far too familiar for Harry's comfort, but Draco didn't seem to notice as he continued talking. "Get her back? Merlin's beard, Potter! If he was careful in taking her from the grounds, he's probably not going to hurt her while he's got her hostage. But you can't go flitting off to wherever you think they might be in hopes of some stupid-but-daring rescue."

"And why the hell not?" Stupid-but-daring rescues were sort of Harry and Hermione's 'thing', after all.

"Because she's one person! I get it, she's the brains behind your operation, but she's still just one witch, and you've got a literal castle full of people depending on you." Draco shook his head, unable to believe he'd really had to play the voice of reason to Harry fucking Potter. "Honestly! What sort of leader are you?"

"The sort who never asked to be one!" The shouted words had fallen from Harry's lips before he even thought through what he was saying.

Chewing at his lower lip, the pale-haired wizard nodded. "And that's why, if Greyback's forces do come at the castle tomorrow night, he's going to win. He  _chose_ to be a leader, and you seem to want nothing to do with it. You'd even go so far as to sabotage your side by ditching them, all to go rescue  _one_  witch!"

In a blink, Draco was on the ground, his cheek throbbing and a split in the corner of his mouth. Harry stood over him, his trembling fist still in the air.

"Hell, Potter?!" Struggling to his feet, Draco wiped the blood from his mouth with the edge of his sleeve.

Harry pulled back his arm and dropped it to his side as he shook his head. "Never make the mistake of thinking Hermione is unimportant. You got that?"

"Wha'ever," Draco said in a dull tumble of sound. He shouldered past Harry to continue along toward where the Hufflepuff and other Gryffindor had stopped on the map. "This is what I get for trying to talk sense into you. No wonder you never had many friends."

Ignoring the need to shake out his aching knuckles, Harry followed along behind Draco. The Slytherin wizard stopped, staring down into what appeared to be a sinkhole.

"Well? You see anything?"

With a frown and a string of hushed curses under his breath, Draco leaned closer. "I dunno, not really, I think. Whoever was out here must've been digging for something. I don't imagine anyone would've simply not noticed a hole this—" He tumbled forward, into the hole as some of the soil at the edge gave away under his feet.

Harry winced at the dull thudding sound as the other young man landed hard on his bum. Malfoy was really not having a good night, now was he?

Holding in a snicker, he asked, "You okay down there?"

Draco shook his head and climbed to his feet, muttering his reply as he wiped dirt from his backside. "Asking like you actually give a rat's arse. I'm fine. Just . . . think it's fairly obvious whatever might've been here, there's no trace of it. Whoever they were, they must've used magic to excavate this spot."

Harry frowned. Who the bloody hell would be wasting time on something like this right now? "I don't under—"

"Wait. I do see something."

As Malfoy lowered himself down on one knee to peer down at something in the dirt, Harry dropped into the hole beside him. Holding down his illuminated wand for added lighting, he arched a brow. "Are those . . . ?"

"Robes. Looks like. Keep the light on it.  _Nox_." Extinguishing his own wand, Draco turned his magic to carefully lifting the tattered garment from the soil. "Well," he said, vaulting himself out of the sinkhole and then guiding the robes along behind him. "Let's go find out who was poking about in some unmarked grave, shall we?"

Deciding it was his turn to be the voice of reason, Harry climbed out, as well, shaking his head as he fell into step beside Malfoy. "Look, we don't know for  _certain_  that it's a grave."

"Oh, yes." Draco rolled his eyes, tipping his head side-to-side as he spoke. "Because it's so common for someone to bury robes hip-deep under the earth in the middle of a bloody forest."

Harry scowled, biting back a scathing retort. Sniping at each other wasn't going to get them anywhere. "Wha'ever. We need to get that inside, and let Professor McGonagall know about the werewolves taking Hermione."

"Tonight's just full of all sorts of—"

"Mr. Potter? Mr. Malfoy?"

"—fun."

The wizards halted at the sound of Minerva McGonagall's shocked voice calling their names. They both looked toward her, noting Professor Sprout at her elbow.

"What are you two doing out here at this hour?"

Draco and Harry exchanged a glance at the professor's uncharacteristically stammered question. A Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff? Well, didn't that just fit nicely with this mess.

"Well," Draco said in his typical sneering tone. "We might ask you the same thing, Professor."

Harry hated that he found himself gripping his wand defensively as the pale-haired wizard went on, but everything was getting so bloody confusing. He wasn't certain who to trust right now and he hated that feeling.

"Digging around in old graves, by any chance, were you?" Draco moved his wand, dragging the tattered robes into the path of Harry's wand-light.

Harry realized then that he was hoping for a denial. Some coincidence that meant this had  _nothing_  to do with them.

Pomona held up her hand in a placating gesture as she said, "This isn't what it looks like. Please, allow us to explain."

The admission that whatever this was did involve them, somehow, sent his heart plummeting into his stomach.

* * *

"I was right, wasn't I?" Mulciber asked as he and Fenrir stalked down the staircase, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.

His brow furrowing, the other werewolf looked up, puzzled. "Right about what?"

Smirking Orias darted his gaze back in the direction of the witch's room before answering. "I told her I thought you were enamored of her. It's true, isn't it? She's more than just a missed opportunity to you, isn't she?"

"She's always been more than that. From the moment she and I first crossed paths," Fenrir said with a shrug. True, the moment they'd first crossed paths, he  _might've_  overreacted in his desire to claim her for his own, talking about taking bites of her and trying to get Bellatrix to let him have her and all that.

Not the best first impression, he'd grant her that.

His expression turning thoughtful, Orias halted, waiting for the other wolf to pause. When Fenrir pivoted on his heel to face him, Orias spoke. "It's not just that it's rare finding a Muggleborn with wolf's blood, is it? There's something you're not telling me."

Snorting a chuckle, Fenrir shrugged once more. "Perhaps because it doesn't matter if  _you_ know or not?"

Nodding, Orias arched a brow. "Fine, then. Something you're not telling her."

At that, Fenrir's face fell. Nodding, he said, "You're right. There is. I haven't told her, because I don't know what it means, nor how she'd take it."

"Which is?"

Biting his lower lip as he thought, Fenrir shook his head. "Sorry, Mulciber, but that's between her and me  _if_  I decide to tell her."

Orias rolled his eyes, but held up his hands in surrender as they started walking, again. "Fine," he repeated with a sigh. "Well, then, let's go have a look at my  _lovely_ accommodations for tomorrow evening."

Fenrir laughed, stepping ahead of him to lead the way. He was going to have to watch himself with this one—sticking his nose in where it most certainly didn't belong.

After all, if he couldn't yet understand what it meant that Hermione Granger had smelled  _familiar_ to him when they'd first met, why the bloody hell would he tell anyone else before even bringing it up to her?


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

"We have no idea who it is," Minerva said, her voice grave as she, Pomona, and their two former students, looked down at the body—or what was left of it.

"I performed a rudimentary scan, checking the soil and bits of plant life left on the flesh and the bones." Pomona shrugged, waving her hand toward the corpse. "It was in the earth roughly two decades, give or take a few years? It's hardly exact, I know."

The professors had led the young men to the Herbology greenhouses. They'd explained they had wanted a chance to sort this without raising anymore fuss or alarms among those in the castle.

Draco turned his attention to the robes they'd found. The lines on what was left of the scarf and trim were so discolored from being caked by soil for so long, it was impossible to tell what House it was.

"So a student vanished and no one batted an eye?"

Minerva actually uttered a scoffing sound. "Oh, Mr. Malfoy, think! The time frame, alone, suggests that whatever happened to this child occurred during the First War. We don't know that for  _certain_ , of course, but it would explain a student vanishing without notice, given the chaos of that period."

"Speaking of students vanishing," Harry cut in, pausing to clear his throat. "There's been a development you need to be aware of."

"Oh?" Minerva and Pomona both locked their attention on Harry as Draco, overcome with a moment of morbid curiosity, moved closer to the body.

"Greyback and Mulciber, they managed to escape." He hurried on before they could react—he imagined a lecture on not informing them straight away was on the horizon, otherwise. "They went out of their way not to harm anyone—"

"Tell that to the knot on Longbottom's head," Draco said in a bored drawl as he started a cursory examination of the nearly-skeletal face.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Okay, they went out of their way not to  _kill_  anyone, I think so they wouldn't draw attention, but . . . they managed to kidnap Hermione."

Pomona covered a gasp with her hand as Minerva's eyes went wide.

"What?" the headmistress breathed the question. "How?"

His shoulders drooped. Just as he was recovering from the staggering relief of discovering the witches had nothing to do with body, directly, the weight of how terrible they were about to feel pressed on him.

Frowning, Harry looked away, unable to explain while holding either of their gazes.

Exhaling sharply as his words registered, Minerva shook her head. "She was following us?"

"Oy, someone want to come look at this?" Draco's question cut off whatever Harry might've said in response.

All three turned to face him. And all three immediately winced. The pale-haired wizard stood at the corpse's head. Using a short stick he'd obviously pinched from one of the nearby potted shrubs, he had pried open the mouth.

"Sick," Harry whispered, the bridge his nose crinkled in disgust.

Glancing over at the three of them, Draco scowled. "I thought the skin that's still around the mouth looked puffy, so I figured I'd take a look. But I can't believe what I'm seeing, so . . . second set of eyes, please?"

An exasperated expression pinching her features, Minerva approached. Though, she couldn't say she didn't feel a need to steel herself before looking.

"Oh . . . oh, that's . . . ." She swallowed hard, her brows drawing upward. "Unexpected."

Catching her troubled gaze, Draco nodded. "Right?"

"Bloody hell, what did you find, Malfoy?"

"Fangs."

"Fangs?" Harry echoed the word, shifting his attention to the corpse, once more. "But this body looks—"

"Human," Minerva supplied, nodding. "I should say they were killed mid-transformation. Far enough in to elongate the teeth, but not show in the structure of the body, yet."

Pomona's voice was heavy with sympathy as she said, "Werewolf or not, someone killed a student. Someone hid their body in the Dark Forest, hoping no one would ever discover it. We need to find out more. We need to find out who this poor child was."

Harry didn't like the sound of any of this, at all. "Hermione was looking into the First War and any history surrounding it before she vanished. I . . . I didn't make the connection before, but . . . . I know she'd been talking to Greyback, and then she was on this mad tear to research that time and werewolves. What if Greyback taking over has something do whatever happened here?"

"You think a monster like Fenrir Greyback would honestly care about one dead Hogwarts student?"

Harry shrugged. "I think Professor Sprout is right. We need to learn who this is. I think we need to go back to that spot you started excavating and search for more evidence about whatever happened there." He looked over the body, once more. Whoever this was couldn't have been older than himself and Malfoy.

"And I think monsters don't make  _themselves_ , Professor."

* * *

Hermione'd managed to doze off. After everything from the past few days, even feeling rested after waking from that damned Stunner hadn't full restored her.

But it was a restless slumber, filled with fleeting images and the sensation of fingers trailing across her skin. Like when she'd tried to recall that discussion with Greyback.

Her eyes snapped open and she bolted upright on the bed. The feeling had been so real, she expected to find him beside her. Yet, as she looked about, catching her breath in short, quiet rasps, she saw that she was alone.

Glancing around the room, once more, her gaze landed on the spot where she'd sat just a little while earlier as she'd chatted with Mulciber.

_"Did your instincts tell you something, too, then, Little Witch?"_

_"Maybe. I . . . I don't know what came over me, but . . . it was like I couldn't tell him no. Like I didn't want to."_

_"And is that just him, you think? Or could you respond to another werewolf like that, too?"_

Had . . . ? Her brow furrowed as she thought back on the intensity of his gaze as he'd asked that. She'd been so convinced he was deliberately trying to rile her up. But what if he hadn't been? Could he truly have been asking if she might respond to _him_  that way?

"Whatever, Hermione, go back to bed. There's nothing for you to do right now. Literally."

With a frown, she let herself realize she was still rather exhausted. Curling up on the bed again, she closed her eyes and let sleep overtake her.

It wasn't long before she once more felt those same stirrings. The trail of fingers against her skin. Teeth dragging over her throat in sweetly grazing nips. The sensation of a body, warm and hard-muscled, pressing to hers.

God, where had her imagination gotten all this from?

She writhed on the bed, seeming to try and press closer to those touches. When her movements again proved she was alone, she found herself roused from sleep, all over again.

Her mind fuzzy, she sat up, pressing a hand to her forehead. Had she . . . ? She licked her parched lips. Had she said something before waking up this second time? It felt like she had.

Then she remembered. There'd been a glimpse in those dreamed moments, just now.  _Eyes._  The icy-blue eyes of Orias Mulciber.

Did that mean she'd just said—?

A startled breath from the doorway drew her attention sooner than she could finish the thought. There stood the very same man she was pretty sure she'd just dreamed about.

The very same man she was pretty sure she'd just moaned the name of before waking up.

"Did . . . did you hear me, just now?" she managed in an airy whisper.

Orias nodded, his cheeks tinted a ruddy shade. She could see in her periphery the way his chest rose and fell as he breathed. She was positive the only thing that kept him from storming into the room right now and doing something that would leave them  _both_  flushed and breathing heavy was the knowledge that he couldn't cross the ward.

Swallowing hard, she only held his gaze. Hermione tried to slow her pulse, tried to push the delicious imaginings out of her head.

Tried to understand why she felt some nagging impression of guilt when the eyes she'd seen in her dream had been blue rather than amber.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Lucius could not help but be painfully aware of the shifting of the mattress beneath him as Narcissa climbed out of bed. Watching her through half-closed eyes, he remained silent as she slid her feet into her slippers and pulled on her dressing gown.

She had often been one for wandering the manor halls when she could not sleep, but now the occurrence troubled him. Now, after noticing that whenever Narcissa left a room, Antonin Dolohov would find some excuse to leave the room shortly thereafter, he was unsettled by her nocturnal wanderings.

He wanted to believe it his imagination, but as of late his wife certainly did have a distracted gleam in her eye. Her very presence, in fact, felt lighter than it had since her decision to send Draco away.

The whole scenario bothered him to his core, despite how much he wanted to trust her. Despite knowing that Dolohov seeming to show interest in her did  _not_ mean she was reciprocating.

But then, he supposed he didn't trust her nearly as much as he believed, after all, since he found himself getting out of bed shortly after she slipped out the door. Sparing a moment to don his own slippers and dressing gown, he closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

Shaking his head—either at a hope to confirm his fears or to dismiss them, he wasn't quite certain—Lucius slipped out the door after her. Through corridors and around bends, he crept along behind her in silence, feeling utterly ridiculous that he should be forced sneak around his own home in such a fashion.

Eventually, she stepped out onto a balcony that overlooked the sprawling woods surrounding Malfoy Manor. Narcissa walked to the ledge, lifting her face to the cool night breeze as she rested her hands against the weathered stone.

Feeling like a fool, Lucius backpedaled, making the movement as quiet as he could manage so as not to alert her to his presence. He shook his head at himself. Just as fast, though, a shadow cast by the light of the nearly-full moon overhead fell across the balcony floor.

At the sight of the dark-haired wizard strolling up behind her, Lucius curled his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms. Yet, Antonin Doholov did not sweep up behind her. He made no overt attempt to slip his arms around her, or even to touch her. Instead, he stepped around Narcissa, appearing to stare up at the night sky, as well, as he simply stood beside her.

"Every time I feel like I understand what's happened to my life, I'm reminded how very little I actually comprehend what it's become," she said, her voice low enough that Lucius nearly didn't hear her. This conversation had been meant for Dolohov's ears, alone, yet Lucius could not bring himself to turn away.

He could easily, now, return to their bedroom and wait up for her. He could count on relating this moment, alone, to jar the truth from her. Even so, he seemed to have lost any will to move, just then.

"I told you." Antonin shook his head, sighing audibly. "You need to speak to him. He would want to know what you've been going through."

She uttered mirthless laugh. "Would he, now?"

The wizard snickered and shook his head. "He is your husband. I would imagine that has to give your concerns _some_  weight with the man."

"But that's the issue, isn't it, Antonin?" Narcissa shrugged, tipping her head to look down into the treetops beneath them.

Lucius' eyes shot wide at her addressing the other Death Eater so casually. Just how often did they have these little chats?

How often had they been about _him_?

"I feel as if I lost my husband to this war long ago. I've no idea who the man staring back at me from behind those grey eyes is some days."

Feeling as though he'd been struck, Lucius started a slow backpedal at her words.

"Even if that is so, you _should_  discuss such things with him. If he can no longer be reached . . . ." Antonin shrugged, once more snickering as he said, "These discussions are so much easier with a glass in hand. As I was saying, the person to discuss this with is him. The only way to know for certain if you've lost him may be to come out and ask him, directly. Find out if you still mean to him what you once did."

"I'm scared."

Lucius' shoulders drooped, he was nearly out of earshot, now, but he didn't want to pause. He was fiercely curious, but afraid to hear more, all the same.

"I fear that by sending Draco away, I have only managed to highlight how little else bound Lucius and I together."

"You sent your son away to keep him safe," Antonin said, his tone sympathetic in a way Lucius had never heard before. "And while you both know that was for the best, if there truly is nothing more there . . . that is something of which you both need to be aware. Something which you should _both_ have the opportunity to acknowledge."

"I just—"

"Narcissa."

Lucius spun on his heel, away from the private discussion. Yet, he found himself pausing a moment, awaiting her response.

"I know. I suppose I'm not being very fair to him, keeping this all to myself. I just don't know what I feel, anymore. That uncertainty is terrifying."

Swallowing hard, Lucius finally started back down the corridor, his head full of the whens and hows of his relationship with her crumbling. He'd known for a long time that his choices had likely condemned their marriage long ago, but he realized now that he'd somehow never expected the cracks to show.

He continued on his way, missing the movement behind him as Antonin placed a gentle hand over Narcissa's on the weathered stone ledge.

As Narcissa, after a moment's pained reluctance, closed her eyes and tilted her head to rest against the dark-haired mans' shoulder.

* * *

Hermione felt a sudden, entirely irrational, flare of anger at herself. She was aware her own feelings were muddled and confused, and the timely arrival of Orias Mulciber outside her door was not helping.

She was supposed to be focused on the fact that she could not escape. That she was defenseless. That she was a prisoner, utterly useless to her friends on the other side of the battle lines. If she could only get a message to Harry about what Fenrir really wanted, maybe things could be resolved some other way, for she feared the entire purpose of tomorrow night's so-called display of controlled force might be lost on them.

But even with all these more sensible thoughts running circles in the back of her mind, she found her attention on the pair of werewolves who'd brought her here. Fenrir who seemed so convinced there was some connection between them, and Orias who . . . who was starting to have some lasting impression on her all his own for reasons she couldn't begin to fathom.

Just now, however, that irrational anger concentrated itself on Orias.

Frowning, she climbed out of bed. "What are you even doing here?"

His brows shot up at her accusatory tone. "Me? _I_  was just happening down the bloody corridor.  _You're_  the one literally moanin' about me in your sleep."

"Well, I don't much like the sheer coincidence of that. How do I know you didn't creep back here after whatever you and Greyback just slunk off to do?"

He folded his arms across his chest, holding her gaze as he tipped his head to one side. "Well, I suppose you don't. You know, a few hours ago, you didn't seem to mind me standing here. Now I can actually smell the anger coming off you."

She started at his words, giving him a once-over.

"Are you angry with me for not being Greyback? Or yourself for it not being his name you just said?"

Hermione desperately wanted to pick up some nearby knick-knack and hurl it at him, but she wasn't certain if it would cross the ward or bounce back at her. "Okay, let's be logical about this. First, you're an attractive man, you know that, anyone who's glanced at you for half a second knows that, and no one can control what they dream about, so  _please_ , get over yourself!"

He bit his lip in a clear attempt to hold back a laugh at her flaring temper and her easy acknowledgment of his aesthetic attributes. She was strangely more appealing when she was all riled up like this.

"Second, there are so many other things I should be up to right now, but no, I can't be because you arseholes literally stole me in the dark of night and brought me here against my will. So, now I'm stuck in this room unable to do a bloody thing but bitch about it all!"

Orias arched a brow, his voice calm and controlled, especially in contrast to the way her volume seemed to be rising with every sentence. "Third?"

"Third? Neither the first or second things I listed had anything to do with Fenrir, so why on earth would you think that my anger in this moment has anything at all to do with him?"

Resting his shoulder against the doorframe, he shrugged. "I don't know, it's your temper tantrum, not mine. You tell me."

"I . . . ." Her jaw fell open as she stared at him. She refused to think on her feelings when she awoke and realized she'd not been dreaming about Fenrir. "You know what? No. I don't have to explain myself to you. To either of you. Now get that other great lummox of a wolf up here, if you would?"

Orias squinted at her as though she'd just spoken in some completely indiscernible dialect.

Giving an eyebrow arch of her own, she mirrored his stance, folding her arms under her breasts and scowling at him. "I said go get Fenrir."

He nodded. "So this has nothing to do with him, yet you've got a sudden and mysterious desire to speak with him?"

Uttering a scoffing sound, she rolled her eyes at him. "Not for anything to do with . . . . Oh, no!  _No_. I just said I don't owe you an explanation. I don't think I like you very much, Orias Mulciber."

A smirk curved his lips then, slow and wicked.

Hermione only scowled harder. "What's that look for, then?"

Once more, Orias shrugged. His gaze flicking over her in an appraising look, he said, "It's cute how very in denial you are."

The witch clenched her teeth, a sudden burst of anger causing little sparks in the air around her, but useless, otherwise. "I said," as she talked she did pick up the nearest knick-knack and hurled it toward the door, "go get Fenrir!"

Watching the decorative glass whatever-it- _had_ -been hit the jamb and shatter, he raised his brows at her. "Dangerous little thing, aren't you?"

She narrowed her eyes in a lethal glare. "I try."

"Fine." With a bored sigh, Orias turned on his heel and started away from the door.

Hermione paced as she waited for him to return with Fenrir . . . . Or Fenrir to come up on his own. Maybe Orias would come back and declare Fenrir wouldn't speak to her until she settled down. She didn't know Mulciber well enough to predict if he'd try to warn his leader about her conniption.

"You demanded to see me?"

She jumped at his voice from the doorway, despite that she was expecting him. Looking over at him, she noticed he appeared exhausted. They'd dragged her here in the late evening. It was now the middle of the night, her entire sense of time had been thrown off by everything that had happened since Mulciber awaking from his magically-induced coma.

There was a terrible twisting in her chest for the briefest moment over thinking Orias might've had to wake him up  _just_  to come and see what she wanted. She pushed that momentary flicker of concern aside.

"Yes." Crossing the floor to stand before him at that open doorway, she looked up at him. "I want to be let out of this room."

His brows drew upward. "I can't trust that you won't try to escape, and the journey back to Hogwarts would be unsafe at best for you right now."

Hermione's shoulders drooped as she shook her head, hardly able to believe what she was about to say, but she couldn't take being confined this way. "Look, I'll give you my  _word_ , I won't leave your side, but I'm going mad in here. Please."

Fenrir folded his arms across his chest and exhaled sharply through his nostrils as he thought over her request. "Your word? Really?"

She nodded. "I do have a few conditions, but they should be simple enough to grant. Meet these conditions, and I will not attempt to escape."

The werewolf sighed. This was going to be problematic. Just as she seemed unable to say no to him, he was finding himself cursed with the same inability when it came to her.

Crossing the warded threshold to close the distance between them, he said, "Let's hear these conditions."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

Hermione backpedaled, wide-eyed and rasping for breath as she stared up at Fenrir. To his credit, he appeared just as shocked as she felt.

He'd crossed into her room to speak with her. And then, she wasn't quite certain how it had happened, or who had moved first, but his mouth was on hers. His tongue had darted between in her lips as his hands slid along her sides and around her, cupping her arse with splayed fingers to hold her to him.

She had twined her arms up around his neck, her fingers tangling in his long hair and her nails raking at the back of his scalp as she seemed to try to get closer to him, still. Returning his kiss with just as much fire, she had pulled back enough to nibble at his bottom lip before she'd snapped back to her senses and peeled herself off of him.

_Holy hell, no!_  she thought, mortified.  _That was . . ._  nice _. . . dammit! Why did it have to feel nice?_

As though she wasn't conflicted enough, already?

"What the hell was that?" she asked in a trembling voice.

He hadn't moved since she'd practically leapt out of his arms, merely holding her surprised gaze with his own. "I'm not sure?"

Her shoulders drooped and a look of utter disbelief colored her features.

Forcing his arms into motion, he held up his hands in placating gesture. "I was not expecting that, I don't even seem to recall which of us initiated and which of us was reciprocating."

She lowered her gaze, her eyes drifting closed as she shook her head. "But . . . but it doesn't matter  _who_  initiated if it was reciprocated, now does it?"

Fenrir's brows drew together as he watched her fretting. "I'm sorry, what?"

Her shoulders slumping, she turned away to take a seat on the edge of her bed. Probably not the best choice of places to sit, given what had just occurred, but she didn't even know if it was a deliberate decision, or if she simply wasn't thinking it through.

"Even if you started that, just now," she said, once more shaking her head, "then it means I reciprocated.  _Eagerly_ , no less."

"I see." He'd really thought at least some of what he'd explained to her earlier just that night had gotten through to her. Had perhaps let her view him a tiny bit differently. "Kicking yourself for fraternizing with the enemy are you?"

"No," she said, aware she should be shocked by her easy answer, but the word came out in a dull, quick tumble of sound. "I'm . . . I'm just confused. I don't know what I'm feeling and everything that's happened lately has all seemed to move so fast, I feel like I don't even have time to wrap my head around my own thoughts."

He nodded, getting the sense that she wanted to talk about this, even though she clearly did not consider him the ideal person  _to_  talk to. "Should I guess that the source of your confusion is that you don't quite hate me, anymore?"

She frowned, unable to meet his gaze. "That's part of it. Hate you. Fear you. That's how I'm  _supposed_  to feel. And this is way too quick a scenario for the change to be rooted in Stockholm Syndrome."

If the Muggle term she'd just used bewildered him, he gave no outward sign. "I'll not stand here arguing against my own interests, as it were, if that's what you're hoping for."

"I'm not." She braced her palms on either side of her on the mattress. "I just don't understand what's happening to me. But you do." Forcing herself, Hermione lifted her gaze to his. "Don't you?"

He let out a sigh. Stepping closer, he hunkered down on the floor before her to look up into her face. "I don't know, not for certain, anyway, what's changing your feelings. I know what I feel, and I understand there's a connection between us in a way your human mind isn't likely to let you acknowledge."

"So, it's about my blood, of course, is what you're saying?"

Fenrir shrugged. "I'd have to think so. Because if it wasn't for that human mind of yours, there'd be a lot more happening on that bed than you simply sitting right now."

The witch's brows shot up. She was pretty sure the last thing she needed right now was to imagine anything of the sort. Honestly! The very notion of her and Fenrir Greyback rolling around in a tangle of bed sheets and sweaty limbs was . . . .

Wait, where had she been going with that thought?

Giving herself a shake, she refocused her attention on him. Only the way he was staring at her now was too oddly reminiscent of how Orias had been looking at her when he realized she'd been having some sinful dream about him. All flushed skin, wide eyes and stuttering breaths.

She honestly didn't know if she could think straight with that hot and bothered type of appearance so close to her. Close enough that she could reach out and touch him . . . . That she could circle her arms around his neck and sink her fingers into his hair, all over again.

A dazed light coming into his eyes, he let his lids drift closed and shook his head. "If you don't want me to throw you back on that bed and shag your brains out right here and now, you're _going_  to need to control whatever is going through your head."

Her response was entirely involuntary as a quiet gasp tore out of her, his words setting off a sweet little throbbing between her thighs.

Forcing his eyes open, he let out a muted growl. He couldn't seem to stop himself as he rose up on his knees, gathering her into his arms and bringing his mouth crashing down over hers.

Hermione knew she should push him away—this was not at all why he'd come into the room!—that she should try to get this impromptu meeting back on course. Yet, she was kissing him back. Uttering little noises of her own in the back of her throat, she was gripping her hands into his shirt and tugging at him, pulling him tighter against her.

* * *

Harry shook his head as he fought a yawn. The words in front of him were starting to blur together, and he knew he was forcing himself to go on despite how exhausted he was.

The professors has chosen to turn in, though they'd marked the necessary area of the Forbidden Forest as off-limits to patrols, they had decided it best to continue their investigation in the morning. He'd agreed, but he couldn't put the matter out of his head so easily.

Malfoy had put up no end of fussing as they'd returned to the war room to scour the books Hermione'd set aside. He might be a spoiled, belly-aching wretch, but when it came to research, Draco Malfoy was second only to Hermione, and so Harry had insisted he help with this, too.

But they'd found no clues, yet, and Harry was rather certain at this rate they'd end up sleeping on the floor beside the giant ruddy map.

Reluctantly closing the book in his lap, he hefted it aside and turned toward Draco. The pale-haired wizard had actually managed to doze off sitting up, another of Hermione's great tomes open in his own lap. Harry held in a snicker at the idea that these were things the witch referred to as 'light-reading' since he'd known her, and she wasn't being at all braggy or facetious; just Hermione being Hermione.

With a sigh, Harry shook his head. Reaching for the book, he started to slide it away from Malfoy only to be greeted by a sudden whirl of motion.

Draco snatched Harry's wrist in his free hand as his eyes snapped open. Moving on reflex, his wand was out and aimed at Harry's throat before he was even truly awake.

Harry hated to admit it, but for a moment there, he was honestly terrified of Draco Malfoy.

Swallowing hard, he said, "Malfoy? Malfoy!"

Blinking hard once, twice, Draco gave his head a clearing shake. His brow furrowed as he looked about, seeming confused by where they were. "Sorry. I think I dozed off for a minute, there."

"Yeah, you did." Harry continued with what he'd intended to do before Malfoy had scared the shit out of him and slid the book away from him. "I was going to wake you and say we should head to tower to get some sleep when you went into blind murder mode."

Draco looked to his wand, still pointed at Harry. "Oh."

As Malfoy lowered his weapon, Harry said, "And you think you could let go of my arm, now?"

"Huh?" Appearing completely unaware of his grip around Potter's wrist, Draco looked at his hand in surprise. "Oh," he said again.

Meeting Harry's gaze as he reminded himself to breath, Draco relinquished his hold. Yet, for a moment, there, it seemed the other young man was reluctant to move back from him.

Uncertain what was happening, Draco forced a gulp down his throat as he searched Harry's face. He had to push himself to speak as he asked, "Potter?"

Coming to his senses, Harry leaned back, shaking his head. "Um . . . . I . . . sorry, don't know what that was. I'm just tired, I guess."

Practically jumping up to stand, Harry started for the door.

Draco only watched the other wizard go as he climbed to his feet. Uncertain, himself, what had just happened, he shook his head, looking about the now-empty room, as though hoping for some explanation aside from the glaring one that he knew should be obvious.

Finally willing himself to leave, as well, Draco gave a headshake of his own, muttering under his breath, "Tired, sure.  _That's_ a reason for whatever that just was."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

She seemed only vaguely aware that moments ago she'd been wondering why she wasn't protesting this. Now, as he pushed her back on the bed and climbed over her to press his body to hers, she found that same vague awareness whispering in the back of her mind, asking why she hadn't let this happen sooner.

He broke the kiss and she let her head fall back against the bed. Hermione bit her lip to hold back a moan as he lowered his mouth to her throat, dragging his tongue and the very edge of his teeth along the pulse below her ear.

Fenrir let out a chuckle, his breath whispering against her skin at the way she started wiggling under him— _eagerly reciprocating_ , just as she'd complained about minutes ago—to part her legs and pull them up on either side of him. He dragged his mouth lower against her, nipping at her breasts through her shirt.

The feel of his muscled form pressed so tight to hers forced any semblance of sense of logic from her mind. She slid her hands into the back of his robes, sweeping her fingertips along the bare skin of his shoulders. Instinct took over and she shifted beneath him, rocking her pelvis against the hard warmth of him between her thighs.

But then, he froze above her. She immediately stilled in response, but not as though she acknowledged his sudden hesitation, the manner in which she halted strangely more reminiscent of an animal sensing potential danger.

Leaning up, away from her, enough to meet her confused gaze, he merely stared at her a few seconds. The way she was responding now . . . . He'd thought he would be thrilled for her to respond to him so gladly, but now that it was actually happening . . . . Now that it seemed as though it wasn't actually something she was thinking through, at all . . . .

What  _was_ happening to her?

"Do you _actually_  want this?"

The witch's eyes narrowed, as though trying to comprehend his question.

Fenrir gritted his teeth in a feral look. "If you want me to take you  _just_  like this, I will, but not if it means waking up to you not understanding what happened."

It was more the rumbling growl buried in his voice than the words he spoke that snapped the witch back to her senses. Forcing a breath, Hermione shook her head, her brow furrowing. Despite that action, she made no move to disentangle herself from him.

Even understanding that he was not the monster she'd always been told he was did not help to ease her own bewilderment. She wanted to run from this room right this minute,  _but_ didn't want to pull away from the satisfying warmth of his body pressing down against hers. Wanted to open her mouth to yell and scream at him,  _but_  didn't want use her lips for anything more than dragging kisses along every inch of the divine musculature around which she'd wrapped her limbs.

Her brows pinched together and she could feel the dampness of tears gathering in her eyes as she shook her head, once more. "I'm so confused. I can't even tell what I want, anymore."

The  _oh-so-savage_  creature leaning over her let out an oddly petulant whining sound then, something she thought an actual wolf might utter when confused. His frame seemed to slump against hers. The next thing she knew, he had sat up on the bed and pulled her into his arms, cradling her much smaller form protectively in his lap.

Hermione  _really_  didn't know what to do, now. She wasn't supposed to feel so safe with him.

Sighing, he rested his chin atop her head and let his gaze roam the ceiling. "I'm sorry. I don't actually know what's happening to you, either. But I have a confession that might shed some light on things."

"You secretly turned me into a werewolf when I was sleeping?"

Fenrir laughed, shaking his head. Her tone was a strange mix of facetiousness and hopefulness. Hopeful because it would be an answer she could understand, not because she was eager to become what he was. Facetious, because, well, she knew such a thing wasn't possible. If she was going to become a werewolf, there was no way for it to happen with _out_ her knowledge, what with a bite being such a painful thing, and all that.

"No. I've been puzzling over the connection I've felt to you. Were it one-sided, I'd consider it a frivolous infatuation and ignore it."

Hermione frowned, perfectly aware that even as they talked, she was battling a desire to writhe in his lap—to deliberately entice him into going back to what they'd been doing before he'd wrenched them both back to reality. God, just thinking about it kicked off that sweet little throbbing ache between her thighs, again.

His chest expanded behind her back as he inhaled long and deep. Shaking his head once more, he said in a carefully controlled tone, "There you go, again, pretty thing. Stop thinking about things like that. I can smell it from you, you know."

She winced. "I'm sorry. I'll try to control it." Worse than Legililmency a werewolf's sense of smell was.

Clearing his throat, he thought it probably best to ignore the tempting scent for the time being. He'd . . . have to let her initiate the next time she wanted to get close to him like that. Painful a notion as that was.

"You, um, you were saying?" she prompted when they'd lapsed into a silence that only served to deepen the tension between them.

"I was saying that because it's not one-sided, I had to consider what the reason was. I knew you seemed familiar to me from the moment we met."

"I did?"

He nodded. "Understand what I'm about to tell you is something that did not immediately occur to me because of the long-lived nature of werewolves and wizards—of which I happen to be both, after all. I've been through . . . a  _lot_. So I had a lot to search through to pinpoint the source of the familiarity."

"And did you?" She was honestly a little afraid of whatever his answer might be, but she wasn't quite certain why. Nothing he said could change whatever was happening now, could it?

"Yes." He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tighter to him as he went on. "It's in your scent. It's been in your scent, all along. You smell like the one who bit me."

She felt her breath come stuttering out of her lungs. No wonder he'd felt the need to secure his grip on her before he'd said it. "You . . . you mean, the one who bit you—"

"Is likely the same werewolf whose blood runs in your veins."

* * *

Orias hadn't meant to overhear. He  _really_  hadn't. He'd been painfully aware that with what might've happened between himself and his little witch had that pesky ward not been between them, he had no business troubling over whatever might go on between her and Greyback, especially with whatever their connection was.

But he'd been passing the stairs at just that moment, his hearing sharper than was comfortable for him, and he'd heard their exchange of words.

_"The one who bit you—"_

_"Is likely the same werewolf whose blood runs in your veins."_

He'd stepped away from the spot that made picking up their voices too easy for him, but couldn't seem to drag his gaze from the staircase. If they were so connected, then he didn't stand a chance, did he?

Frowning in thought, he tore his attention from the carpeted steps and shook his head. Just days ago, he'd hated her. Now he was concerned with competition for claiming her? Was that some stupid werewolf thing?

Yes and no, he realized. If Greyback and Hermione were connected because one of her relatives had been the same werewolf who'd bitten Greyback, and Greyback had bitten _him_ , didn't that also connect himself and Hermione?

Letting out a growling whine at the potentially headache-inducing loop of his thoughts, he turned and trudged toward the kitchen. Coffee. He needed a bloody  _strong_  cup of coffee.

* * *

Neville snapped awake at the sound of someone storming into the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey had turned in for the night, so he'd been alone . . . . Before even opening his eyes to see who it was, he considered how much he missed the peace and quiet of the empty room.

He listened as the person threw themselves onto one of the beds. When they let out a miserable groan, Neville recognized the sound.

"Malfoy?" He opened his eyes, though didn't bother to sit up, his gaze landing on the other wizard.

Draco lay on the bed opposite his, above the covers, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Problem, Longbottom?"

Neville frowned in thought and shook his head. "Any word on Hermione?"

"So far? Only that she seems to have been taken unharmed."

"That's good news, at least. Um, another question."

Dropping his arm away from his face, Draco maneuvered his head to stare daggers at Neville without actually moving too much. "What?"

"Why are you back here? I thought now that you've been cleared, you'd be in the basement, or the tower."

"Oh, sure, the tower." Draco scowled. "Probably wake up and find Potter staring at me, again. No, thank you."

Neville fought a yawn, feeling like sleep was about to overtake him, once more. Madame Pomfrey had a charm cast on him to jostle him awake should he start falling  _too_ deep asleep, given his head injury, and all, so he could at least get some rest. "What?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Well, hell, now Neville was curious in spite of himself. "Did something happen?"

"No!" Draco snapped a little too quickly. Swallowing hard, he looked away. "Maybe. Oh,  _I_ don't bloody know, all right! I just . . . it was  _odd_."

"Go on."

"The blinking hell do you care?"

Neville rolled his eyes, even as his lids drifted closed immediately afterward. "Who else you got to talk to, Mr. Charming?"

Draco uttered an unattractive scoffing sound in the back of his throat, aware Longbottom was right. "Fine. It's not really a comfortable subject but it . . . it sort of felt like we almost had a  _moment_."

"Like what? Did he kiss you?"

Glaring, wide-eyed at the other wizard, Draco's jaw dropped. Said other wizard, however, didn't seem fazed in the slightest by his question. "No!  _God_ , no."

Neville shrugged, the gesture half-hearted as he was clearly falling back to sleep. "Oh, c'mon. I's not a big deal. I once kissed Dean Thomas."

"You did? How did  _that_  come about?"

Another lazy shrug. "We were curious . . . and a little drunk. Actually wasn't that bad."

"More information than I think I needed."

Neville's words, then, slipped out in a sleepy tumble of sound, "The thing that you should be thinking about is what you'd have done if he actually  _had_. You know?"

The next noise that erupted from Longbottom was a garbled snore.

Sitting up in a slow, cautious movement, Draco only stared at the other young man. What  _would_  he have done if Potter had . . . ?

"No, nope. No! Not even going to think about it!" he snapped in a whisper to himself and burrowed under the covers to get some sleep, whether he bloody well liked it or not.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

"So then . . ." she started, shaking her head beneath his jaw. Even without his very deliberate mention of how long his life had been as he was both a wizard and a werewolf, she knew he was much older than he looked. Despite appearing to be in his late 20s, she wagered aloud, "Would have to have been one my grandparents, then, wouldn't it?"

"I would assume."

This time she nodded, realizing she'd been right. The knowledge changed nothing. "Do you remember their name?" She didn't really know her grandparents. Two of them had passed away when she was very young, so really any of them could be the culprit.

"Strangely? No. She never—"

"She?"

He nodded and shrugged. "Not all werewolves are male, you know."

Hermione shifted in his lap a little. "Well, yes, I know that, of course. Just don't hear about the females all that much, now do you?"

"There aren't many of them, I admit."

"Why?"

"Hmm?" He curled around her to meet her gaze. "Why what?"

"Why aren't there many female werewolves? And please don't tell me its some rubbish like we can't take it. Female bodies can actually handle quite a bit more pain and—"

"Oh, no, nothing like that." Fenrir shook his head, sighing. "It's because of the stigma that comes with affliction. There's no cure, and that knowledge can make some people literally prefer to die than let the change take hold. Males . . . we're sort of stuck. We can't fight our self-preservation instincts. But females _are_  stronger. Those who can fight them and don't want this life—"

"They've killed themselves?"

A sad look flicking across his face, he nodded.

"So, either my grandmother chose to live as a werewolf, or wasn't strong enough to—"

"Oh, no," he said, though he chuckled at they way they kept cutting one another off. "She was very strong. I just . . . I think she took pity on me because I was a runaway. Whatever it was she saw in me, it made her decide I'd be strong enough to not just handle the change well, but to _take_  to life as a werewolf."

"And yet you didn't even know her name?"

Fenrir shrugged, a distant look in his eyes even as he held her gaze. "I think she tried to keep her human and wolf lives separate. Explains why whichever one of your parents is their child never knew the were anything more than Muggles. But every full moon, she'd find me. We'd change . . . hunt . . . she'd teach me things that have been forgotten to most of our kind."

"Like what?"

He snickered, a soft breathy sound. "Well, you'll learn about it eventually, I suppose, but there is a type of magic that only werewolves can perform. She said it was handed down from the one who'd turned her . . . dates back to before the bloody Vikings, the way she told it."

"So my grandmother taught you some type of ancient Barbarian wolf magic?"

"In fact, she said the 'heathen magic' was the real reason wizards have always hunted us. They didn't want anyone with magic that was beyond them. Eventually that was forgotten, and all the magical community seemed to recall was that we were hunted for being godless creatures." He gave a quick eye roll and shrugged. "At least as far as I was told."

"But . . . okay, if her blood is in my veins, and that connects me to you, then . . . ." She shook her head, unknowingly coming to much the same conclusion as the eavesdropping Mulciber. "Then that connects me to  _all_  the people you've turned into werewolves, doesn't it?"

Those amber eyes widened in shock. He'd not even considered that before now. "I suppose so."

She pulled out of his arms to turn in his lap and look up at him. "Maybe that's what's wrong with me. We already know your presence has a, um, well, we'll say a certain affect on me."

He couldn't help but smirk at her deliberately chosen words.

"I've never been around more than one werewolf at a time before this mess." Hermione shook her head. "But then suddenly, I'm stuck with you and Orias, and your army is  _here_. Maybe the close proximity to so many werewolves is having an effect on my blood."

"Fuck," he said in a miserable breath of sound. He leaned back, letting the back of his skull hit the headboard. "Here I thought I was protecting you by bringing you away from the castle."

She forced a gulp down her throat, trying not to notice that his changed position made her wonder what he'd look like reclined that way without his robes to obscure the view. "You, um, you said that. But you didn't really explain to me why you thought that if what's going to happen tomorrow night is, well, no more than a staged skirmish, really."

He arched brow, deciding to keep his awareness of the direction of her thoughts to himself—he had decided he'd let her initiate any further intimacy between them, after all. Dammit to hell. "I had thought having you in the castle would be dangerous, because if I felt pulled by your blood while not shifted, then my wolves would certainly feel it while under the effects of the moon. I was afraid that with you there, they might be tempted to go and seek you out, themselves, and turn that 'staged skirmish' into something truly bloody."

"But then is it really any safer having me here? I mean. You and Mulciber will still be here tomorrow night."

"I have learned to control my shifts. It's also why I don't have to be shifted for my bite to turn someone, anymore. I don't  _have_  to be under the moon's sway unless I choose, and I'll be personally keeping an eye on Mulciber. My wolves will not return here until they've shifted back after sunrise. You are safer here, though I know it probably doesn't feel that way."

She'd dropped her gaze to his chest and dragged it lower, along his abdomen, and further, still, until his body disappeared beneath hers.

"So." He chuckled when she started a little and lifted her eyes to his. "These conditions?"

"Well, um, it was really only one. Well, no, two."

Fenrir nodded, watching as she slid her hands up over his robes. "The first?"

Hermione wasn't quite willing to stop herself as she found her fingers curling into the fabric at his collar. She could feel that sweet tingling ache just thinking about how much she didn't want to stop herself as she tugged at him to sit up, bringing him close to her, once more.

"Allow me to get a message to Harry. Just to let him know I'm safe, that I'm being treated well. It might cause him to start reconsidering the way he and the others have been thinking about your side if he finds you're acting, well, 'human' for lack of a better term."

His gaze dropped to trace her features as he nodded. "Done. And the second?"

"I want my wand back." She leaned up, nipping at his mouth.

"That one we'll have to talk about," he said in a rush of breath before slipping his arms around her once more to pull her tighter against him just as she darted her tongue between his lips.

* * *

Harry shifted under the covers again, sitting up to slam his fist against his pillow and laying down, once more. Yet, just as the dozen and a half times before that he'd tried, it didn't help.

His mind kept tumbling over all the things he'd noticed, only for him to argue with his own thoughts on the matter. No, he hadn't noticed that there was a dusting of pale-gold stubble along Draco's jaw. And so what that his grey eyes actually had some flecks of blue when one looked really closely? And he did not—did  _not!_ —keep recalling the sensation of Draco Malfoy's breath whispering over his skin!

God, he was angry at himself. That . . . whatever it was that had happened between him and Malfoy? He didn't even  _know_  what that was!

Groaning, he finally gave up and pulled himself out of bed. This must've been how Hermione'd felt, so tired, but so troubled by all the unknown factors going on around her. He wished he hadn't brushed off her worries about Greyback's fixation on her. If he had listened, maybe now he'd have some idea what was going on, or why.

Deciding it was best to use his time rather than stand about griping internally, he headed off to the kitchens for some of Winky's coffee. He was going to have another look at that body when there were no distractions around.

No professors looming over his every step, no students up and about who might stumble upon the grizzly discovery. He wanted no distractions, whatsoever.

Especially not distractions like Draco Malfoy.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

Somewhere in the back of Hermione's mind, some little voice was wondering why she wasn't questioning how, exactly, she'd ended up here.

Not 'here' in the sense of being in this dark, massive wizarding estate with werewolves crawling all about the place. No. 'Here' meaning . . . .

Here meaning on her knees, her hands gripping the footboard of the bed as Fenrir withdrew and sank into her again and again. Here, with every motion of him behind her causing her limbs to tense and her entire body to shiver, whimpered moans escaping her throat to mingle with the panting growls he uttered.

Because of  _that,_  she had a perfectly clear recollection. She had acted first, after all, pulling him to her and leaning up in his lap to kiss him.

She remembered perfectly their fevered rush to remove each other's clothes, the race of fingers shaking with anticipation. Remembered perfectly the brush of hungry mouths across skin as it was bared.

Remembered—rather thankfully—the ticklish feeling that rushed across her lower abdomen as he cast a contraceptive charm before tossing his wand aside with their discarded clothes.

Remembered perhaps a bit too clearly the sound she'd let out, some yelped mix of delight and surprise, as he'd thrown her onto her back and buried his face between her thighs. And the way he'd groaned deep in the back of his throat—a purely animalistic noise of hunger and contentment—as he brought her to orgasm with the swirling pressure of his tongue.

Remembered how he'd shot up to loom over her the moment the last shivering aftershock left her. How he'd leaned close and spoke into her ear in a soft, growling whisper. "On your knees, my pretty thing."

Though her limbs had been reluctant to follow her commands, she did as she was told. Yet, as she'd knelt there before him, blinking up at him in such a bizarrely innocent way given what they were up to, he smirked. Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as he held her gaze, he made a spinning gesture with one hand.

_Yes,_  she'd thought, inwardly giggling, her senses overtaken by what felt like some drunken, hazy stupor,  _like wolves_. For some reason, she found the odd appropriateness of it wildly amusing, even as she once more did as he instructed.

He'd slid his arms around her to guide her hands, wrapping her fingers around the top of the footboard. Her eyes had actually drifted closed at the feel of him gripping the hair at the back of her head in his fist. He positioned himself and then clamped his free hand over her hip to steady her.

How she managed to keep herself from letting out an ecstatic scream as he'd slammed his pelvis forward, burying himself within her in one hard and fast movement, she still didn't know.

How long had they been going at it now? Hours? Minutes? How could this feel like forever, yet like mere moments, all at once?

Her hazy mind couldn't make sense of the time around the blissfully blurry edges of his thrusts. Pleasure and pain rushed through her with every jarring motion—she'd always heard one could enhance the other because they were so closely linked. She'd never had a reference for that statement's truthfulness until now.

Fenrir growled as her body started growing taut. Somehow she recognized the sound that met her ears as one of satisfaction. As though she'd heard it a hundred times before and knew it by heart.

She also recognized the sudden frenzied jerking of his hips. That he was trying to meet her didn't stop him from slipping the hand that held her side down between her thighs, rubbing over her in rushed, erratic circles.

Hermione threw her head back, biting hard into her lip to keep from screaming as the added sensations of his fingers working against her and his own body freezing up in that harsh final thrust behind her pushed her over the edge.

It seemed another moment of not knowing how much time was passing while fine tremors shook through both of them. Now she knew . . . .

As their orgasms ebbed, she understood. As they slowly, languidly regained the ability to move, she understood.  _This_  was what she'd wanted.  _This_  was what she'd somehow known was going to happen if she gave into him.

_This_ , as he slowly withdrew, dusting breathless, exhausted kisses across her shoulders. As he gathered her into his arms and collapsed backward onto the bed.

_This,_  that she'd somehow known and expected, as they fell asleep curled around each other. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for them.

* * *

Lucius had so wanted to discuss matters when Narcissa returned to their room. Or, at least that was what he'd wanted when he first returned and decided he would try to hedge her woes out of her so they could openly discuss the now very obvious troubles between them.

If things should end, then that was a decision they should reach together, not because she felt alone, or because he felt vindictive and neither of them knew where the other one stood. They could not continue on as they were, together-yet-not.

However, as he waited . . . that petty, small part of him, that part of him that needed to control things, that needed to be the one to decide everything reared its head. And, like some broken children's toy, he had no idea how to put that part of himself back in its neat little box.

He'd thought he should lay in the bed, pretend to sleep, and then when she returned, show her he was wide awake and pepper her with questions about where she'd been. Or perhaps she should return to see him sitting up, that he should pretend to be puzzled that she had managed to stumble into a bedroom unaccompanied.

And oh, how he  _hated_ himself for being such a wretch in these imagined scenarios. He had no proof anything beyond friendship existed between Narcissa and Dolohov. He'd seen only a show of friendship, of shared confidence. Of trust.

Perhaps  _that_  was the issue, for he could not think if he and Narcissa trusted one another, anymore.

He knew that he was not being fair to Narcissa to condemn her for something she might not have done, something she might not even be considering . . . . Something he, himself, might even push her to with his own anger and resentment at his own failings.

Yet, somehow, he could not help himself as he began a methodical search of his wardrobe, of his bureau drawers. He painstakingly extracted a few days worth of attire from undergarments to robes, even changes of nightclothes.

Setting the neat bundles atop his nightstand, he sat up on his side of the bed and waited, his back against the headboard and his legs outstretched as though he were lounging. And with each passing moment, that part that was small and petty  _grew_.

Eventually, the door opened. He took a quick inventory of her appearance as she stepped inside. Her hair was still unmussed, robe still belted, nothing about her countenance would suggest anything untoward happened between her and her new friend. But that petty part of him could not let go of the simple fact that that did not mean their meeting was wholly innocent, either.

After a step, Narcissa gave a start. Her blue eyes shot wide and she continued forward, her footfalls mechanical, as she saw Lucius sitting up. Then she noticed the bundle of clothes on the night table beside him.

Normally so cool and collected, the gulp she forced down her throat was audible in the otherwise silent room.

"Out for a little late night stroll, were we?"

Shrugging, she collected herself. "Well, Lucius, you know when I can't sleep—"

"Never mind," he said, standing in a fluid motion and snapping his fingers for one of their elves to appear. As he waited, he tacked on, "I have seen to it that  _your_  nocturnal wanderings will no longer trouble  _my_  sleep."

Her jaw fell as she watched a servant appear, take the bundle of clothes from the night table, and await instructions.

"To my father's old room, if you would."

The elf nodded and poofed away.

"Lucius?"

Meeting her gaze, he could feel that he was already kicking himself for being so vile right now, but he could not help this impulse. He was very much going to regret this in the morning, but just now, he had to go through with this bit of vindictive plotting.

One corner of his mouth plucked upward in a mirthless smirk as he reached down, smoothing a hand across the covers. "Don't worry, I made sure to keep this side warm for Dolohov. Good night, Narcissa."

Her shock lodged a knot in her throat. She turned with his movement as he strode to the door, but couldn't force herself to say a word until he was already out in the corridor. "Lucius! It's—"

The sound of the door slamming shut behind him cut her off.

Narcissa's expression crumbled as she lowered herself to sit on her side of the bed. She hated the damnable mist of tears she could feel welling in her eyes.

She'd known all along how shaky things were between them. Known all along one misunderstanding could be enough to send them spiraling apart. She didn't understand her own feelings, and she now recognized that she understood his feelings even less than she thought she had if he wouldn't even allow her the benefit of explaining herself.

Maybe an end would be a relief.

Looking toward the door, she shook her head. "It's not what you think," she said in a pained whisper.

Maybe they were broken beyond repair, after all.

* * *

Hermione stretched, feeling comfortable and secure in a way she had never imagined she could. Opening her eyes, she could see the first streaks of sunlight peeking through the windows.

Today was too important to lie there, snuggled up against his deliciously solid and muscled frame, but that was precisely what she wanted to do. She pushed back against his warmth, delighting in the way he reflexively tightened his arms around her.

She could scarcely believe that with everything happening around them, she wanted to smile. She felt so oddly content.

All because she'd shagged Greyback?

Holding in a snicker—she knew it had to be something more than that, perhaps something to do with her werewolf blood telling her this was  _right_ —she did let herself smile. And with that smile, she turned in Fenrir's arms to look up at him.

* * *

He wasn't sure if he was or wasn't expecting to wake up to her screaming at him, but that's certainly what happened. Opening his eyes, he saw her standing before the mirror above the bureau. There was no time to appreciate the view of her naked form in the morning light as his gaze landed on the bloody teeth marks in her shoulder.

He could see in her reflection the betrayal and confusion playing across her face. But, as she looked at him in the mirror, he turned his attention to his own face.

Practically stumbling off the bed, he came to stand behind her, just as confused as he touched his fingers to his lips. His crimson-stained lips.

It was little comfort that the betrayal in her eyes faded. He could see that her confusion only grew at the awareness of his own. At some point last night, he'd bitten her.

And neither of them even remembered.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Orias had known what was happening up there during the night. He could hear it . . . hell, even as he tried not to, he could smell it. Bloody werewolf senses. He'd been determined to avoid the upstairs, and both of  _them_.

But then Hermione's panicked shouting yanked him out of sleep practically with the bleedin' sunrise, and before he could stop himself he'd bolted to the second floor.

Running on instinct, he'd forgotten about the ward barring the doorway to her room. The barrier knocked him back, returning him to his senses. Giving himself a shake, he peered into the room, strangely more ruffled by the crimson that stained her shoulder and Fenrir's mouth than he was that neither of them had bothered to throw on a stitch of clothing.

He disrupted their shared moment of obvious confusion as he bellowed from the doorway, "You  _bit_ her?!"

The pair spun to face him, seeming equally oblivious to their state of undress given the gravity of the situation. "I don't remember doing it!"

Hermione shook her head, her eyes welling up with tears that were a mix of angry and bewildered. "And I don't remember him biting me, either! It's sort of a painful process, I'm pretty sure I'd recall!"

Why was everyone shouting? Even wondering that, however, didn't stop Orias, himself, from bellowing some more as he asked, "Well what the bloody hell else could've happened? You can't leave this room and he's the only one who can get in, remember?"

Her shoulders slumped as she uttered a little rumbling sound in the back of her throat. "No, you . . . daft great thing, you. I know  _what_  happened, I just have no idea how it is that neither of us—"

"What is with all this yelling so very early in my . . . ?" Lucius Malfoy's irritated voice cut into the conversation, but almost as abruptly, his words trailed off.

The other three blinked around at each other before looking to the pale-haired wizard. To his credit, Lucius turned his back on the scene even as his eyebrows had shot up at the sight of the naked witch. "And why on earth is Miss Granger nude?" Clearly, he didn't put it past Fenrir Greyback to wander about bare as the day he was born when left alone, but he was relatively certain the Mudblood girl didn't indulge in such— _ahem_ —freedoms of self, as it were.

Hermione glanced at Orias and then Fenrir before dropping her attention to herself. The entire mad scenario had distracted her completely. Emitting a shocked squeak, she crossed the room to snatch up the quilt from the bed and pulled it around herself.

"'Why on earth' is Mr. Malfoy the only one who bothered to say anything?!"

Fenrir and Orias both shrugged, answering in unison. "He's married."

Lucius sighed, shaking his head. "Not sure how much longer  _that's_  going to be true."

Again, the other three all turned to gape at him. In spite of herself, Hermione found the words tumbling from her lips, "Are you and Mrs. Malfoy having problems?'

With another sigh, Lucius shook his head as he darted his eyes about, though he still had his back to them. "Honestly? I am not even certain . . . wait, wait." He turned to face them once more, looking at the three of them, in turn. "Oh, no, no," he said with a short chuckle, "this is about whatever little drama is unfolding between the three of you, not anything to do with me."

Fenrir shook his head, a troubled frown marring his features as he went about pulling on his robes. "I don't understand how this could . . . ." He pivoted to pin Hermione with his gaze as he ventured, "Is it possible we were so caught up last night that it happened _during_  and neither of us noticed?"

She winced, raking her gaze across the carpet beneath their feet as she thought back on last night. There were so many sensations that had coursed through her . . . she did remember, however, thinking quite distinctly about pain. It hadn't been the sharp searing of a bite, however.

Could everything else they'd been up to really have masked the feeling?

Meeting Fenrir's gaze, she shrugged. "I don't know, but what other explanation is there?"

"Un-fucking-believable," Orias snapped in an angry growl, turning on his heel and storming off.

Hermione let out a little plaintive whimper as she took a thoughtless step toward the door. "Orias, wait!" Catching herself immediately, she froze. Her expression was so confused it was nearly comical.

Actually, it  _was_  comical for Lucius Malfoy, who stood at the doorway, still, observing the scene. Though— _despite_  his prolonged presence in a situation that had nothing to do with him—he showed the good grace to bite his lip, holding back a laugh.

Fenrir held up his finger, unaware of Malfoy's amusement, or even that he continued to hover out there in the corridor. "What the hell was that?"

Once more wincing, she turned to look up at him. She could play dumb and force him to explain, but she knew they were both cognizant of her attempt to keep Orias close, even with what had happened between her and Fenrir last night. She'd thought it herself, after all, hadn't she? That they were like wolves . . . and even as she'd thought that, she was aware of one simple fact about wolves.

They mated for  _life_.

It hadn't scared her. Hadn't made her want to run away. Fenrir had been absolutely correct, it had felt right between them. And yet? The anger in Orias' voice, the pained light that had flickered through his eyes before he'd stormed off tore at her heart. Just as it tore at her heart that Fenrir seemed so upset at her attempt to stop the other werewolf from walking away.

Her brow furrowing, she shook her head, confused tears welling in her eyes as she said, "I've no idea."

* * *

Draco held up his hands, stopping just short of the book Harry hurled across the war room. He'd decided he'd let whatever that was that had happened last night slide, and if Potter wanted to revisit that . . . situation, or explain what the hell that had been, then that would be on  _him_.

"Oh. Malfoy, didn't see you there." Harry cleared his throat and looked away, shoving his fists into the pockets of his trousers. "I'd apologize, but, ya know, it's you."

Draco rolled his eyes, stepping further into the room. "Always a delight to be around, you are."

Strolling across the floor—seemingly putting distance between them on purpose—Harry sighed, aware it was probably morning by now. "What're you doing up here, Malfoy?"

Scowling, Draco shook his head. "Oh, like I'm so sure I even want to be up here? Professor McGonagall sent me to find you. You missed breakfast, and she wants us to go have a look at that grave in the daylight . . . as discussed last night, remember? Question is, what're  _you_ doing up here? Unless hurling books at the wall was your sole reason."

Now it was Harry's turn to roll his eyes. "No. I was looking over that body last night after everyone had gone to bed. I was hoping examining it closely and . . . ." He again cleared his throat, deliberately avoiding mentioning the 'without distractions' part, since Malfoy _was_  the distraction he'd been trying to get away from. "Anyway, I couldn't find anything new, so I thought I'd come up here and see if I could use the map to find out what happened."

Draco nodded, pointing at the aforementioned hurled book on the floor in a gesture of displaying Harry's obviously dashed efforts. "And I take it the map was useless?"

"Oh, it told me something . . . it told me  _someone_ didn't want anyone to know what happened to that student."

His brows shooting up as he looked at the map, Draco asked, "You mean it's been charmed?"

"Yeah, and by something I've never encountered. I've tried everything I know to dispel it, and nothing. But . . . then I remembered these books Hermione had up here." Harry tried to hide how much it troubled him, but it was evident in his expression all the same. "They all contain some account or other from the time around our new mystery-friend's death. So far I've found nothing, just as I'm sure Hermione found nothing."

"Yeah, I recall you talking about her recent research, but you can't be saying Granger knew about it. She was taken when the body was found. When would she've had time to compile these books  _before_  the werewolf snatched her up?"

Shaking his head, Harry pressed a finger to his lips as he thought. "That's the thing, though, isn't it? I don't think she knew about the body . . . I think she knew  _something_ happened out there, and she was investigating it, she just didn't know what it was."

Nodding, Draco flicked his gaze about the room. "The body is that of a partially transformed werewolf, and she was following the professors when they found it. Granger was then kidnapped by werewolves . . . . Could that  _really_  be a coincidence?"

"Like I said yesterday, Greyback had some sort of fixation on her. I'm pretty sure his taking her at that moment was more opportunity than intent. He might've planned on taking her when he was breaking out Mulciber all along. But . . . ." Harry's shoulders slumped and his eyes drifted closed as he once again shook his head. "She kept trying to explain to me things about wolf behavior and the influence it might have on werewolves, but I wasn't listening."

"Things like what?"

His eyes snapping open, Harry glared at Malfoy. "I just said I wasn't listening, didn't I?"

"Okay, someone needs no coffee this morning." Holding up his hands in a placating gesture, Draco nodded toward the door at his back. "Maybe you didn't find anything in the war records, maybe this room is hexed to hell, maybe Granger isn't here to tell us  _what_  she was looking for. But then maybe there's something in the werewolf research she was doing, yeah? Look into that after we get back from helping the professors investigate the gravesite."

"I'm sorry, you'll have to give me a moment. I'm busy being shocked that you can actually be helpful."

Draco curled his lip in disgust as he turned on his heel and started out the door. "Yeah,  _I'm_  the one who's full of surprises. Just get your arse down there."

Harry didn't bother watching him leave. He dropped his gaze back to the scattering of books left around the edge of the map. Yes, he had to get down to the gravesite to assist, but he had this terrible feeling, suddenly.

The werewolves now, the corpse, the magics employed here that were unlike anything he'd ever even heard of. Even whatever it was Hermione'd been talking about regarding the werewolves . . . . It was all connected, he just had no idea how.

Maybe if he'd listened, he would have some better idea what was going on. But that wasn't all that bothered him. Sure, realizing he'd perhaps taken her insights for granted was a hard kick right in the bollocks, but then so was wondering why she'd not mentioned any of this to him.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

She was avoiding everyone. The way things had gone with Fenrir and Orias, she didn't imagine either of them wanted to see her very much right now. That was just fine with her, however, as she wasn't especially pleased with either of them, both putting so much emotional weight and . . . expectancy on her shoulders.

She'd just learned some pretty shocking things about herself. She'd just woken up to a werewolf bite she still couldn't remember receiving. She'd just unexpectedly found her heart torn between two men she barely knew!

She deserved to be just as upset about the way things were turning out as the two of them!

With a sigh, she rolled her shoulders and sat back. The missive to Harry penned, she read it over. She knew that if she warned directly of tonight's fake-out skirmish, the entire point would be lost, because the forces at the castle would hold back, knowing the attack was only a show. Without a full-on aggressive defense from them, they would not be able to see that the werewolves were controlling themselves. Or worse, they'd see it as an advantage and simply kill the werewolves. She couldn't have that on her conscience.

Nodding at the message, she sealed it away in one of the Malfoy's too-nice, but nondescript, stationary envelopes. She knew it probably wouldn't take too much for someone to figure out where they were, but she was glad that she could not be accused of dropping hints as to their location.

Now that she had been bitten and knew she couldn't return to Hogwarts without her current state throwing more fuel on the fire, she was free to roam Malfoy Manor as she wished. And apparently, she'd only wished as far as the bloody library. Once her friends saw the bite, they'd convince themselves she was possibly in some sort of fugue state and didn't know what she was talking about if she was pleading the case of the man who'd just spread his curse to her.

Sighing once more, she dragged herself out of the seat behind one of the roll-top desks and went to the window. An owl waited faithfully on the sill outside to take her message. "Harry Potter at Hogwarts."

The creature snapped its beak over the top of the envelope and took flight.

As she turned away from the window, she nearly jumped out of her skin to find she was no longer alone in the silent room. Narcissa Malfoy arched a brow at the other woman before turning on her heel and heading to the shelves.

"Sorry, Miss Granger," the blonde witch said, her voice low and full of her own thoughts. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Taken aback by the lady of the house's demeanor, Hermione found herself waving dismissively. "No, no. Um, you shouldn't have to apologize in your own home."

Narcissa shrugged, the movement strangely lazy and careless as she looked over the selection of reading material before her. Hermione thought perhaps her visibly depressed state was on account of whatever it was Mr. Malfoy had been talking about earlier.

Though she started for the doorway, the younger woman paused midstride. This wasn't something she could really discuss with Professor McGonagall, and she might not have the opportunity to get the advice of a more mature female any time soon.

What happened next, Hermione could only surmise was the result of being surrounded by so many males all the time. Since the death of her sister, and aside from Alecto Carrow's presence, Narcissa Malfoy existed in a veritable sea of testosterone.

"Mrs. Malfoy? Do you think I could talk to you about something?"

With a sigh, Narcissa sounded startlingly like her husband as she drawled, "If you so wish. It's hardly as though I can stop you."

"I take that as a yes, so I'm just going to go ahead." Hermione twisted her hands together nervously, despite the not-exactly-pleasant permission she'd been given. "I wanted to ask your advice."

Narcissa paused, looking over her shoulder at the young woman. One brow arched high on her forehead as she tried to imagine what the Mudblood witch could want advice from  _her_ on, she said, "Go on."

Wincing, Hermione spat out the words. "It's about men."

That was when it happened. The change in Narcissa's countenance was nearly instantaneous. Both brows shot up, her blue eyes brightening as she turned to face the other female entirely. "Oh, my dear, of course!"

Suddenly, Hermione found the other witch's hand wrapped 'round her wrist. She was tugged none too delicately across the library and just as suddenly ended up seated on a sofa in a far corner of the expansive room. Mrs. Malfoy sat opposite her, strangely the picture of elegance as crossed her legs at the ankles and braced one arm along the back of the sofa.

"What about men has you so vexed?"

As Hermione stared back at the other woman, scrambling for how to discuss the issue, she figured she'd been correct. Narcissa Malfoy was positively dying for female companionship.

Clearing her throat, the brunette pursed her lips in thought. "Okay. I um, I'm having a problem in that I've never really known how to handle . . . male attention. One was pretty much my speed, more than one would just gum up the works, and there are currently two who are vying for my attention."

"How certain are you that both of these men are interested?"

In her strain and relief at having someone to discuss this with, the words came tumbling out faster than she could think to stop, or even censor them. "One took that I shagged the other as a personal offense, despite that I was not technically 'with' either of them, and that 'other' took personal offense that I was worried about the upset one."

A curious little grin perked up the corners of Narcissa's mouth. "You are so much more interesting than I'd given you credit for."

"Um, thank you?"

"All right." Narcissa ignored the bewilderment in the other woman's tone at the strange compliment. "I suppose then, the better question is what are  _your_  feelings toward them?"

Her shoulders slumping, Hermione frowned. "That's the thing. I'm not entirely sure I even know. I find myself drawn to both of them. Equally, it seems."

Those icy eyes narrowing in an appraising look, Narcissa rested her chin against her palm. "We would be speaking of Greyback and Mulciber, yes?"

Hermione's entire frame seemed to sag against the cushions, then. Did the whole bloody manor know what had gone on? "Yes."

Snickering, Narcissa once more lifted one perfectly arched brow. "Well, I can't say I don't see why you'd have trouble, I mean, if you're not above fancying werewolves. They are both rather delectable."

The younger woman's eyes shot wide.

Narcissa seemed to find the girl's shock delightful. Throwing her head back in a rich, deeply genuine laugh, she reached out to pat her hand over Hermione's. "Oh, my dear. I'm married, not dead, and I've eyes, haven't I?"

"I . . . I suppose that's true." She let it go unsaid that Narcissa had just easily considered herself a married woman, while Lucius had let slip that he wasn't so sure about the state of their relationship. She didn't want to overstep by bringing up something she should not even know about, so she kept her focus on their discussion. "I just don't know what to do. They're _going_  to expect me to choose between them, but how can I? Being with each of them feels so natural." Well,  _there_  was a notion she hadn't realized until the words came tumbling from her lips. "God, this would be so much easier if I didn't have a decision to make."

Narcissa's expression went straight from amused to pensive as she considered the girl's words. "What if you did not have to?"

A surprised laugh bubbled out of the young witch. "I can hardly let them decide, they'd kill each other.  _And_  it would totally negate me having a choice in the matter." And when had she consigned herself so easily to being 'with' one of them, anyway?

Did that have to do with the bite? She knew she wouldn't shift tonight because her body hadn't yet had time to adjust to the curse's effects, but could it be having an influence on her feelings toward them?

"No, I meant . . . ." Sitting up pin-straight, Narcissa stared at her very seriously. "I'm not entirely certain on how werewolves work, but I do believe they are tied to their primal side, to their natural instincts, more than the average wizard, yes?"

"I do believe you'd be correct."

"So then if you are naturally drawn to each of them, maybe there's some loophole in their nature that will mean you do not have to choose."

"I think they'd each be far too territorial for that to be possible."

"Well, you won't know unless—"

"I have to talk to them, don't I?"

Her mouth tugging to one side as she gave a dignified sniffle, Narcissa nodded. "I should think so. They might think you're completely mad, of course, but perhaps at the very least if they know the strain their intentions are putting on you, they'll give you room enough to sort your own feelings."

Sighing, Hermione nodded back. "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. God, how much simpler  _would_  it be if I didn't have to choose, though?"

The girls' last statement was muttered, spoken clearly to herself. Yet, as she stood from the sofa and crossed the library floor toward the entryway, Narcissa found her attention darting about the room while she pondered how this little talk might be reflective of her own problems right now.

"How much simpler, indeed?" the blonde witch asked the empty room in an airy whisper.

* * *

"No, no," Orias said, shaking his head as he stormed across the dining room. "We really don't need to discuss this."

Fenrir bit back a growl as he watched the other werewolf pace. "Given your attitude, I'd actually say we do. For whatever reason, she feels bad about what happened between us. And it's nothing to do with me, or even the bite, because while she _was_  confused about the damn bite, she wasn't upset or hurt, until she saw  _your_  reaction to the scene!"

Halting mid-stride, Orias pivoted on his heel to face Fenrir. His eyes narrowed lethally, he asked, "So? What exactly are you telling me, Greyback?"

The elder wolf squared his jaw, not missing the tone of challenge in Mulciber's voice. "You won't understand this, yet. I didn't understand it myself until what happened last night, but she's my  _mate_. And you're going to stay the hell away from her."

With a sigh, Orias folded his arms across his chest. "You know what? You're right. I don't think I do understand. So, enlighten me. How do you  _know_  she's your mate? What's it feel like?"

Exhaling a derisive snicker, Fenrir shook his head. His amber eyes seemed to gloss over just a little as he considered the proper words. "It's not easy to explain, but you just know. You  _feel_  it. In you heart, your gut, your mind, your . . . well, I don't think I need to state that last body part. There's just something deeply  _right_  about having them near you. Like right now? She's only on the other side of the Manor and I feel like I'm not whole."

Orias looked particularly thunderstruck by Fenrir's description. "And you only became aware of this after you two shagged?"

"I felt connected to her before that, but it wasn't until then that everything seemed to click into place and I understood. She  _belongs_  with me. That's why you need to stay away, you confuse her. I won't have her in pain if I can help it."

Exhaling sharply through his nostrils, Orias shook his head. "You know what's odd? I  _do_  understand how you feel."

Fenrir's broad shoulders sagged in relief. He really didn't want to have to take Mulciber down. "You do? Then you'll—"

"It's because that's  _exactly_  how she makes me feel, too." He took a menacing step toward the other werewolf. "And I haven't even touched her. So what, exactly, do you say we should do about that?"

Fenrir couldn't believe what the younger man was saying. Was that even possible? Could they both recognize the witch as their mate?

Swallowing hard as he tried to make sense of the situation—and keeping himself from reacting to Orias' blatant show of aggression—he narrowed his eyes in a thoughtful look. Despite his previous comment about not wanting to cause her pain, he said,"I suppose we'll have to make her choose, won't we?"

* * *

Hermione looked about the first floor's wide main corridor and sighed, her shoulders drooping a bit. Where the hell were they? Either of them? Sure, she was positive talking to them at the same time would be easier . . . but also harder in  _so_  many ways.

Shaking her head, she started down the corridor. She heard the creak of a door somewhere behind her, but sooner than she could turn to look, a hand latched around her wrist and pulled her inside.

The door closed just as fast, but she couldn't see who'd grabbed her, since they kept her back pressed to them. As their arms slid around her from behind, however, she felt a giddy ripple in the pit of her stomach.

She knew who this was. How could she be so sure, though, she wondered as she said, "Orias?"

He snickered, his breath ghosting over her ear and the side of her throat as he lowered his mouth toward her skin. "Good guess, Little Witch."

Her eyes drifted closed even as she told herself she should be pulling out of his grasp. Her hands slipped over his to guide them along her body even as she worried about what this meant for whatever existed between her and Fenrir.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

She was utterly lost in the feel of his fingers slipping beneath her clothes, and his teeth grazing the side of her throat. Hermione had to remind herself to breathe as she let her head loll back against his chest. The sensation of his bare skin sliding against hers when he cupped his hand between her thighs made her shiver in his embrace.

A gasp tore out of her throat at the press of his fingertips, working her clit fast and just a bit rough—he was clearly accounting for the idea that someone could walk in on them at any moment. She could tell he was hard, that he was so focused on her, making no effort to guide one of her hands between their bodies to stroke him, only made her more acutely aware of his motions.

Her hips rocked of their own volition, pressing her against his fingers more sharply with every movement. She thought her body must still be overwrought from last night, because it seemed all too soon he had her on the edge.

He snickered, sparing a moment to catch her earlobe between his teeth before he asked, "You always get wet so easily?"

Trembling against him as her body started going taut under his stroking fingertips, she shook her head. "Orias . . . we shouldn't . . . ." She paused, catching her breath in quick little gulps. "We shouldn't be doing this. I . . . I'm not the sort of women who fancies the idea of shagging two different men."

Again he laughed. "Shagging?" He pressed against her just a bit harder, grinning at the way she whimpered and tried to rock against him despite her body going stiff on her like this. " _All_  I'm thinking about right now is making you come. Seems I'm just about to accomplish that, doesn't it?"

She bit hard into her lower lip to keep from crying out as the orgasm washed over her. Everything—the strength of his arms around her, the whisper of his breath against her throat, the texture of his skin against her—felt so perfect, it all added to the dizzying sweetness coursing through her.

For a few heartbeats there was nothing but the sensation of what his working fingers were doing to her.

Hermione choked out a gasp as it started to ebb, her hips jerking almost violently as she rocked against his ministrations, once more.

Orias couldn't help uttering a breathy laugh as he slowed his pace, gauging himself by her shivering movements. "Good, yeah?"

When the last delicious ripple left her, she let herself sag back against him. "That really wasn't fair, was it?"

Turning her in his arms, he captured her mouth with his own. Kissing her breathless, he pulled back only enough to speak, his lips moving against hers. "What wasn't fair? Sating you?"

"No . . . you . . . you already know. I already told you, it's like I can't say no to him. Like I don't want to and . . . somehow you know it's the same for you."

His eyes snapping open, he cupped her jaw in his hands as he straightened to his full height. Staring down into her face, he scowled. "You're crying! Why are you crying? Did you want me to stop? Because I could've!"

"No, stupid," she said, exhaling a sad little laugh as she sniffled. Shaking her head, she drew in a shaking breath. "It's because I didn't want you to stop, but it doesn't change what I feel when I think about Fenrir, and I don't know what that means. I don't know what to do!"

Yelping out a distressed growling sound, he pulled her against his chest, letting her sob quietly. "Greyback?" he shouted, the suddenness of that jump in volume giving her a start. "Wherever you are, get in here!"

Hermione wanted to pull away. Wanted to ask what he was going on about—Fenrir would be able to smell her  _very_  recent arousal winding the air when he came in. Was Orias trying to get himself torn limb from limb by a territorial  _elder_  alpha werewolf? But the comfort of his embrace was just  _too_ warm and perfect—it was  _too_  much what she needed just now.

God, this whole thing was a mess, wasn't it?

She could feel it. Something changed in the room, maybe, but she could feel it. Fenrir was drawing closer. That strange sense of too perfect, too right, only strengthened at the awareness that he was near.

He barreled through the door, and immediately halted at the scene. The other werewolf holding her so protectively, her scent hanging in the air . . . . But then, she turned her face to look at him, and the growling bellow he was about to unleash at Mulciber died on his lips.

"Why are you crying? Why is she crying! What did you _do_?!"

"It's not like that . . . well, it sort of is, but  _no!_ We've got a bit of a problem, Greyback." Orias frowned and shook his head. "Seems she, um, she _can't_  choose."

Amber eyes widening, Fenrir returned his attention to her. "What?"

Sniffling, she turned to face him, fully—which only caused him to arch a brow at the way Mulciber would not relinquish his hold on her, so the ruddy blond mountain now stood hugging her from behind.

"He's right." She breathed in little shivering hiccups, hating herself for being in such a state over men she was  _so_ bloody well convinced she hated just yesterday! "I knew after this morning that—that you'd want me to choose between the two of you, but I can't. It doesn't make any sense, none of this makes sense, but . . . turning my back on either one of you feels so wrong. It _hurts_  just thinking about it. It hurts so much, I just want it to stop and I don't know how to make it stop!"

"I don't understand," Fenrir said, stepping closer. He hated that this was hurting her, but he had no idea what to do, either. "Are your feelings toward both of us the same?"

Her brow furrowed and a fresh wash of tears gathered in her eyes as she nodded.

The sight of her eyes brimming like that crushed him. Somehow, worse, though, was that he could see his response to her emotions reflected in Mulciber's expression.

"And we both feel the same toward you," he whispered with a shake of his head. Swallowing hard, he continued, sounding as though the air had been knocked from his lungs, "This shouldn't be possible."

Orias was sick to his eyeballs of not being sure what was happening. " _What_  shouldn't be possible?"

Fenrir didn't even have it in him just then to have raise his hackles over the tone in which the younger wolf had bit out those words. He extracted Hermione from Orias' arms and sat on the floor, moving her to sit in his lap.

He held her closely, protectively, as he answered. "It's literal. She can't choose because she actually  _can't_. Not without feeling like she's trying to tear out her own heart. I've heard about this. This sort of pain is what happens when a werewolf loses their mate."

A sense of relief tore through her and she shuddered in his embrace. That's what this feeling was! She was trying to force herself to make a decision, and it  _hurt_ —just as she'd told them. It hurt like she was trying to wrench the organ from her chest with her bare hands. Hearing it put into words, having the feeling be given form and reason, alleviated some of that pain. Having his understanding, though? That made it hurt less, still.

When she'd simply been contemplating that they'd wanted her to choose a little while ago, it had caused her heart to ache, but  _nothing_  like this. This wretched sensation had only started when she actively tried to pick one over the other.

Orias' mouth pulled into a tight line as he pondered that—as he pondered his own lack of desire to fight the other werewolf taking her out of his arms so easily. Were it anyone else, he already knew he'd have torn their head clean off. Maybe it was the state she was in. Mad as it seemed, her pain took precedence over anything else for him in that moment, so if being held by Greyback was going to ease her suffering, then that  _was_  what would happen.

Raking his fingers through his hair, he watched Fenrir's expression as he asked, "Does that mean what I think it means?"

The elder werewolf closed his eyes, resting his chin against the top of  _their_ witch's head. "I've no idea how, but it means she's mate to _both_  of us."

* * *

Harry climbed out of the grave, grumbling under his breath. After dusting himself off, his took out his frustration at finding nothing overtly helpful by thumping the toe of his boot against a stone.

"Well, I've been told to go kick rocks before when something upset me and there was fuck-all I could do about it, never thought it was a thing anyone  _literally_  does."

Clasping his hands behind his neck, Harry let his eyes drift closed and tipped his head back. "Tha's probably because you wouldn't want to damage whatever pricey footwear your parents bought for you. Rest of the worlds kicks shit all the time."

"You two never do stop bickering, do you?" Pomona asked, only half paying attention as she smirked and shook her head. While there hadn't been any obvious evidence left behind, she wanted to be certain the site was as clean as it appeared, carefully reading the soil with her wand. "Like a married couple, you are."

Harry's eyes snapped open and he set his head straight to glare at the back of the herbology professor's head. He completely missed that Draco mirrored both his murderous expression and the direction of his gaze.

Catching the shared action, Minerva arched a brow. Well, half the bloody faculty called that one, hadn't they?

"I don't understand what I'm seeing, exactly," Pomona said, cutting into the headmistress' silent observation. "There's magic here that I just can't make sense of. I can't tell what it was meant to do, or . . . anything. It feels  _unfamiliar_ , though."

"Potter, didn't you say something like that about the magic locking down the map in the war room when you asked what happened here?" Draco nodded to his own words, elaborating for the benefit of the teachers. "He said there's some sort of enchantment on the map that stops it from giving information about this incident, whatever it was, and nothing he tried to break it worked."

Minerva frowned in thought. "That is troubling. Let's go see this enchantment in action, shall we?"

The four turned as a unit to start back toward the castle when the hooting of an owl overhead caught their collective attention. As they looked toward the sound, a single parchment envelope came floating down to land before them.

"I's from Hermione," Harry just about shouted at the sight of his name across the front in her wonderfully familiar handwriting.

Draco was honestly surprised he didn't dive for the bloody thing in his scramble to scoop it up from the forest floor and tear it open. Both teachers gathered close around Harry's shoulders to read it along with him, but Draco had a feeling that wasn't necessary.

He also wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of crowding himself close to Potter like that. This was just weird. And awkward. Weird and awkward and he hated it. Stupid Potter.

" _Harry,_

_First, let me say I'm fine. They didn't hurt me, not even when they took me. I'm not being tortured, this message isn't coming to you under duress—you_ know _I'd find a way to let you know if it was. I should mention, however, that the reason I was permitted to send this is for the sole purpose of letting you lot know I'm unharmed. I'm not even being treated like a prisoner, well, except that I can't leave the grounds. I know that sounds like a prisoner, but . . . it's a fine line, anyway._

_Second, please stop worrying, I really am all right. And don't shake your head at this page like you haven't been."_

Draco snickered as Harry paused, mid-headshake during his reading. "Merlin, she's got you pegged, hasn't she?"

Harry didn't even bother to look over at Malfoy as he snapped, "Yes, well, not that you'd understand this from personal experience, but that's what happens when you're  _friends_ with someone."

His grey eyes narrowing, Draco found he just couldn't help himself. Dashing the toe of his shoe against a pebble in front of him, he sent the tiny stone right into Potter's shin.

Wincing, Harry looked up at last. "Oy! What was that a few minutes ago about kicking rocks not being a thing people literally do?"

"That hurt?"

Harry scowled. "Yes!"

"There you go." Draco shrugged. "When I did it, it served a purpose. When you did it, it was just stupid."

Uttering an impatient groan—she was going to lock these two in the dungeon and not let them out until they'd gotten this out of their systems, she _swore_  she was—Minerva snatched the letter from Harry's hands. " _Do_  you both mind very much?"

Clearing her throat, she continued the reading. " _Third. We were right. The werewolves will be on the move tonight. But . . . I can't explain it all here, you won't understand. I'll tell you this, you can't fight them like they're monsters, Harry. Please. If you've ever believed me about anything, ever, believe me about this now. Don't fight them thinking they're not human. What we've seen may not be the best example of it, but they're_  not  _monsters. This is going to sound strange, but what they are is a people. Like you and everyone in the castle._

_Don't fight them like they're monsters. Fight them like they're people._

_I know you can protect everyone. I love you, please be careful._

_Hermione."_

"What does that mean? Fight them like they're _people_?"

Harry frowned at Pomona's question. "I've no idea, but Hermione left all her werewolf research up in the war room, and we're headed there now, anyway. Maybe something in the books will help us figure it out." He ignored that trusting him to 'protect everyone' did seem to be asking a lot of him, but that was one thing Hermione'd always had. Faith in her best friend Harry—so sure and so strong, it almost made him want to cry.

Draco didn't fall into step with the rest of them as they started walking toward the castle once more. Looking back toward the grave, he echoed something Potter had said last night. " _Monsters don't make themselves_  . . . . I think—I think she means not fight out of fear, or at least no more fear than we'd have fighting another witch or wizard."

Harry couldn't help but halt again, feeling sure he could almost hear Hermione's voice in his head, helping him sort through the reason behind her message. She wouldn't say something like that unless she was sure it would help, somehow.

"Emotions," he said, his green eyes darting about as he spoke. "Hermione would be the first person to point out that emotions cloud judgement. Fear is probably one of the worst when it comes to that, so . . . ."

Harry's brows shooting upward, he looked up at the three of them, collectively. "I'm not sure why, but she wants us to be clearheaded enough to observe the battle while we're fighting. To judge  _who_ we're fighting, not  _what_."

Draco turned, moving past them to start down the path back toward Hogwarts, and the war room therein, as he said, "Well, isn't this is just proving to be our weirdest year here, yet?"


End file.
